


Canticle

by fachefaucheux



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Angels, Angst and Humor, Catholic Guilt, Demons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy, Gen, Healers, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mages, Magic, Mercenaries, Military, Multi, Perpetual Sickfic, Size Difference, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 84,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6684928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fachefaucheux/pseuds/fachefaucheux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his old life as a member of the French magical nobility is ruined, Mirk finds himself taken in by the K'maneda, a mercenary group that seems to be a haven for the bizarre and unhinged. In particular, he's become the pet project of Genesis, a divisional sub-commander who was hired to defend Mirk and his family and failed. As Mirk begins to adjust to his new life, he ends up inexorably drawn into Genesis's factional struggle to retake the K'maneda from its new, less ideological leaders. With Gen's brilliant magical and tactical abilities, Mirk's ability to make and keep alliances to make up for Genesis's utter lack of social skills, and their mutual friend K'aekniv's band of berserker Russians thrown in for intimidation and firepower, they might stand a chance of winning. But it's a complicated situation.</p><p>One that isn't particularly helped by Mirk's sudden realization that he'd much rather be sleeping with the commander instead of just fighting alongside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’d been locked in the room for months now, he knew, from the tally he kept in the slim ledger that the head healer, Comrade Emir, had brought him. He had been keeping notes in it meticulously, day after day, idle observations, unfamiliar customs, who was related to who, the English words that Commander—no, Comrade, they all called themselves Comrade regardless of rank in that place—Genesis had told him that he hadn’t found first in the dictionary. He hadn’t been properly confined to the room, true, but he hadn’t felt up to leaving it much either: once or twice he went to the dining hall in the middle of the night when there was no one there but the assassins, safe because their feelings were always hidden tightly behind mage-shielding, their dark, hunched over figures spaced far apart on the long benches, their eyes cast always down. He took baths more often than he rightly should have, also in the middle of the night, and had never been disturbed. Though he credited that more to the commander (little c, he could get away with the one with the little c, it was technically correct) rather than to the late hour. He never saw the man ghosting about in the hall outside either before or after he went in, but he had his suspicions. 

He didn’t spend all of his time alone either, not exactly—they’d been sending people in under the guise of them being “visitors” to test to see if he was recovering ever since he’d been able to get out of bed. At first even Panik, the quiet and noncommittal sell-sword (no, he was a sergeant, and they weren’t sell-swords, they were K’maneda, which was different than being a sell-sword, Genesis had told him, though as far as he could tell the organization was still essentially an army for hire) had been too much for him. Panik had a certain feeling of bleakness, distance about him that unsettled him. But he got used to it. And then he was bumped up to Ilya, who felt strange because he saw the world in much more detail than he did: to him, every object had an aura, a voice. And then came Mordecai, who finally got him to laugh again via the silly puns he used to try to teach him English (English that Genesis invariably corrected). 

Finally, there was K’aekniv, who’d plunked himself down on his bed so hard he’d broken three of its slats and had immediately fished a bottle of clear liquor out of his greatcoat for him in apology. He’d entertained him for a good three hours during his first visit, as he unsuccessfully tried to fix the bed, ultimately lighting the whole thing on fire on accident. They’d saved the quilts, but not the mattress. So, from then on K’aekniv had sat on the floor, or rather, sprawled on it, taking up so much of the small space that he had to sit cross-legged on his new, somehow even lumpier bed just to give him enough room. K’aekniv told him endless stories—about his childhood in that cold, distant place to the east, Russia, about the long journey from there to England, about what all the other men had been like when they’d been young. K’aekniv’s emotions were very strong, more powerful than those of an average person, but they were also very pure. When he laughed, he laughed all the way down—there was no lingering bitterness or sorrow or anger to taint it. Once he’d spent time enough with K’aekniv to be able to tune out his feelings, he knew the time to return to the real world was coming.

And if one of the other men didn’t appear, there was always Genesis. Genesis with his dozens of excuses to stop by, ranging from giving him assignments (they invariably made his head hurt and he inevitably got them hopelessly tangled up) to bringing him books from the library, which he handed to him always with some comment about how he really should be reading books that were more “improving” and how the librarian must have thought he was going mad for checking out such nonsense. Genesis who felt like nothing, even when he seemed miserable, even when he had that eerie, cold look about him that meant that someone, somewhere was going to be regretting what they’d said to him earlier, even when Mirk brushed a hand against the back of his just to make sure there was really nothing there. In that way, he served his own purpose in making him feel somewhat more like his normal self. He allowed him to reach out again because he knew touching him would never trigger a response too strong for him to handle. There would just be the faint, static feel of his chaotic magic against his mind and nothing more. The fact that he was continually poking at him seemed to annoy the commander, but, then again, everything seemed to annoy him. 

Still, he kept coming, so it couldn’t have bothered him too much. Genesis felt responsible for him, in some way, Mirk thought, though there was no way he could confirm his intuition. It seemed as if he felt like he had a duty to protect him now that his family was gone. As if all the things that had happened back before he had found himself hidden away in that cell of a room were somehow his fault. He thought about telling Genesis that he really wasn’t to blame for any of it, but he knew that the commander wouldn’t listen. One didn’t need the slightest bit of empathy to be able to figure that out.

Truly, Mirk wasn’t certain whether he’d ever be able to go on like he had before, if he’d be able to handle others with the ease and pleasantness that he’d long been accustomed to. But he knew by the growing chill inside him that no amount of blankets or warming spells could get rid of, by the way his magic sometimes seeped out of him and curled about the floor, looking for something to hold on to, by how the former cacophony of his thoughts had faded into a low murmur, that it was time to leave. Ready or not.

Genesis had been talking about something. Doubtlessly, he was supposed to have been listening, but sometimes Genesis’s rambling discourses, smattered with pauses so lengthy it was hard to tell whether he’d concluded or was just thinking, got away from him. It’d started out as something about levitation, but it’d gone decidedly off. Once he tuned back in, he found Genesis talking about something called “the fundamentally fragmentary nature of the realms” and “turning the construct of reality perpendicular to time,” though he couldn’t see how the two things were related. Mirk waited for one of his pauses, then cut in, a bit embarrassed by how his voice cracked—he’d been used to talking all the time every day, and all the silence had been getting to him.

“I…methinks it might be time for me to go now, _messire_.” English still sounded clunky and strange to him, especially when he spoke it himself—when others spoke it, it wasn’t so bad, but when he did, it sounded like he was perpetually trying to cough something up. Genesis frowned at him. Whether it was over being interrupted, over “methinks” (he was constantly looking for them in the big dictionary he’d been brought, words that mimicked the comfortable levels of politesse and indirectness that he felt safe using, and when he found one he clung to it like a drowning man to a bit of broken-up hull) or over “ _messire_ ” (Genesis hated it, but it’d become habit, and he’d never been very good at banishing those), he wasn’t certain. 

Nevertheless, Genesis responded to him rather than scolding him and going back to his original subject. “Yes…perhaps that would be…for the best. There is no harm in making an attempt, in any case.”

The one thing that Genesis’s magic didn’t shield him completely from, he’d discovered, was pain. It didn’t feel nearly as harsh as it did coming from a normal mage, but still, it was there, escaping through his protective aura of chaos in pinpricks that chafed at the back of his mind like a blister. Though the commander had finally quit his habitual lurking near the far end of the room, pacing to a tempo known only to him, and was now leaning back against the door to the room, holding himself as still as a corpse, the pain was still there. Judging by how he was heavily favoring his right side, it had to have something to do with his other leg.

Mirk tried not to stare at it too much as he attempted to puzzle out what was wrong with him. He was wearing a sort of flat, flimsy shoe, very different from his ubiquitous boots, so he suspected it was something around the lower part of his leg. Sprained ankle? Some manner of crushed foot? He shook his head and made himself refocus a bit more on the conversation. “Where will they put me?”

“We have…come to the consensus that it would be a waste to run you through the Academy. You will be sent to the healers directly. They…have various facilities that will enable you to learn the craft. All other magical essentials, I shall handle…as they arise.”

He found himself smiling despite the constant tiny bolts of pain. Genesis was so stubborn. It didn’t matter whether he got the right results—if he got to them via a way different than Genesis’s own, the results had to be inferior. “How many healers are there here?”

“Two hundred and fifty-three.” He paused, seeming to do a bit of mental math. “One hundred and twenty-seven support members who aren’t healers…proper are included in the division totals.”

“That many?”

“This is an army. There are…many incidents.”

Mirk saw his opening and took it. “Like what happened to you?”

Genesis gave him a blank look. Mirk gestured at him, vaguely, at his leg. “What happened?”

“…it is unimportant.” 

“Methinks it’d be best if you sat down. It won’t heal any faster with you standing on it.” Mirk patted the far end of the bed, after moving aside some of his growing collection of pillows. K’aekniv took a certain delight from stealing them, so even when he’d told him he had plenty, they still kept appearing. Mirk supposed he could have directed Genesis to the chair by the tiny desk crammed into the corner of the room instead, but that chair was fairly low, even for him. It would have basically been a toy to Genesis. 

“It will heal…no matter what is done to it.”

Mirk sighed. He hated to be so direct, but it seemed to be the only way to get K’maneda to listen. Either they were too literal-minded to pick up on subtlety or they were too intransigent to do anything they didn’t feel inclined toward doing unless asked directly. “Everyone would be hurting less if you sat down. _Messire_.”

With a miserable sigh, the commander shoved off from the door and walked over. The pain flared, probably from him attempting to walk as if nothing was wrong instead of being gentle with himself. “A proposition. I will acquiesce if you quit calling me…that.”

Mirk shrugged. “All right.”

Cautiously, as if he expected something to leap up from behind the bed and attack him, he sat down. Despite the dimming of his pain as he stretched his legs rigidly out in front of himself, Genesis seemed to be made much more uncomfortable by having to sit on the bed, within arm’s reach. Mirk considered the most polite way to word the question that was nagging at him. “Er, are the healers very busy this time of year, then?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh. So you’ve just been busy.”

Genesis frowned. “No more than…is customary.”

“Euh…then it’s…a magical injury, I suppose?”

“No.”

Mirk sighed. Getting information he didn’t particularly feel like sharing out of the commander was like prying sweets from a child on Christmas. “Then why isn’t that fixed?”

“It has been seen to,” Genesis said. He seemed genuinely perplexed by this line of questioning, much to Mirk’s surprise. Mirk shook his head, taking a closer look at his leg. Now that he was both closer to him and the magelights, he could see that blood was beginning to seep through his pants near the knee. 

“It’s still bleeding.”

Genesis cursed—at least, that’s what Mirk always assumed he was doing when he made those occasional jumbles of hissing and clicking noises—prodding at his leg with the barest tip of one finger. It came back bloody. Muttering, he dug in his coat pocket for a handkerchief and began to dab, futilely, at the growing bloodstain. 

“You should go see the healers, Genesis.”

“Right,” he snorted, giving up on trying to clean his pants, making the bloodied handkerchief disappear into a faint cloud of dust with a flick of his hand. “They were the ones…responsible for this shoddy workmanship in the first place.”

“What?”

“They…cannot heal me. No more than anyone can. The chaos doesn’t allow for it. I wouldn’t have gone at all, had the…lower bones not been broken. I needed them set. The rest I can do on my own.”

Mirk searched for something to say, staring at his injured leg. Genesis had never said anything to him about healing magic not working on him. Mirk had just always assumed that since, after a while, his wounds disappeared, that it just took some time for the healers to get to him, or that he was too stubborn to go in and ask for help. “Couldn’t they at least give you something for the pain?”

He shook his head, curtly. “Pain and sleeping draughts…make me ill.”

Mirk plucked restlessly at his blankets, continuing to stare at Genesis’s injured leg. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“Few things…in this world are.”

“Maybe they just haven’t found the right way to make it work yet.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

He’d tried for so long to forget about it that it took a long time for the memory to come to him. It was a memory of the fight they’d had with the demons on the road to his grandfather’s manor. One of the half-solid monsters had managed to land a blow on Genesis’s leg that had severed some vital part of him, making blood pour from him in torrents. Useless for much else, he’d tried to stop the bleeding while two of the other sell-swords had fought back the demons. He’d been terrified. He’d frantically wished for him to stop bleeding, to get up, to be fine, or else, he knew for certain, they’d all end up dead. Or worse. 

And Genesis had. The bleeding had come to a sharp halt. After the battle, when he’d asked Genesis about it, the commander had said that the wound must have clotted.

“I’ve done it,” Mirk finally said, softly.

Genesis waved a dismissive hand at him. “A fluke. Occasionally some healer or another manages it. The chaos is not prone to precluding any possibility completely. However, do not…attempt it again. You will only end up in the infirmary yourself if you do.”

He wanted to protest. But he bit his lip and forced himself silent, forced himself to look away from his leg and down at the floor instead.

Mirk refused to believe, considering all the wonders and horrors he’d seen done by magic, that there wasn’t a way for it to do something as simple as fix a broken leg.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirk meets with the other healers for the first time...and begins to discover why they all groan and roll their eyes the instant Genesis appears on the ward.

Comrade Emir was a tall man, a tall half-breed accustomed working with other tall half-breeds—Mirk had to nearly run to keep up with him. 

“Surgery’s down that way, so’s recovery. Long-term ward to the right, but we have a dedicated staff for them. Most of our long-terms aren’t all here, so to speak. You need a lot of muscle for them.” 

Mirk followed the curt flicks of his hand as best he could, but all the halls looked the same to him—dim, cold, made of a dark gray stone that seemed to eat up the light. He didn’t know why the K’maneda kept their sick and injured in such a grim place. Perhaps it was meant to encourage them to get well more quickly. The chill in the air was growing as they sped onward, sidestepping clusters of green-robed healers and attendants in torn and bleached blacks who invariably cast troubled looks after them as they passed. 

“Here’s emergency. The transporter is right at the end there, so this is where the majority of our most critical patients come from. Direct from the field. Though the assassins tend to drag themselves in the front instead, even if they’re half dead. Stubborn lot. Miserable patients.”

“Miserable?” Mirk barely managed to spit out. He was rather embarrassed to find that chasing after Emir was leaving him out of breath and too distracted to follow his rapid English well. It had been a long time since he’d walked any substantial distance, he supposed, but that didn’t make him feel any better about it.

“They’ll try to bolt the instant you get them halfway stitched up. Better to just knock them out right at the start.”

“Oh…”

“The infantry, on the other hand, they’ll lie around in recovery for weeks if you don’t throw them out. Really, the mages are the only halfway decent patients, and they’re the ones who are _actually_ hard to care for, from a technical perspective. You can’t win here.”

As abruptly as Emir had whisked him away from the infirmary’s front entrance, he came to a halt—it was either stop or go with him, nothing in between. They were at a place where the main corridor met the arched entrances to another set of halls, one running off to either side. The cold was so sharp now that their breath hung in the air. Emir jerked his head at the hall to their left—it was shorter than most, leading to a set of precipitous steps. 

“The basement. Where we keep the bodies until Shade’s Holiday. Usually the divisions take their dead down themselves, but First and Fifth infantry tend to forget about people when they’re in the thick of things.”

Involuntarily, he shuddered. It took him a moment to find the right English words—it was as if the sudden, discomforting knowledge that the whole infirmary stood above a room full of the dead had blotted out all the rest of his mental faculties. “You…you put them all in graves at once?”

Emir shook his head. “K’maneda don’t bury their dead. Some of Command won’t let their people be put with the rest and have them taken away to be buried properly, but most of them stay down there until December. Then they’re burned.”

Unbidden, memories came to him—his grandfather’s manor aflame, the horrible smell of scorched flesh, the screaming of horses. They’d burned the stables too, burned the servants’ quarters, burned everything. They knew what it meant to rob them of a final peace in consecrated ground. He shook his head to clear it, but it only made bile rise up thick in his throat. If Emir could feel his distress, he didn’t comment on it. But his fright was evident in what he blurted out, how he said the word, almost like a curse. “Burned?”

“They stack them all in a big pile in the woods and light them together. It takes a day or two to get through all of them.” Emir wrinkled his nose at this, taking another glance down the hall that led to the basement. “I agree with you, it’s barbaric. But it’s what they do. Most of them don’t have anyone left behind to tend their grave, anyway. They might be better off.”

“Oh…”

Emir nudged him away from the hall leading down to the basement with a momentary hand on his shoulder, with a faint projection of a feeling of sympathy. It surprised him enough to stop his whirling thoughts. He forgot sometimes that there were other people like him here, that there were people who understood him, despite his shaky ability to communicate. He’d started to think of everyone in the K’maneda as being like the members of the Seventh he’d spent the last year around; jovial but somehow still removed, fatalistic, loath to acknowledge discomfort or distress. “The normal treatment rooms are down this way. The workrooms too. We’ll start you out in here.”

Mirk fixed a strained smile on his face, giving an affirmative nod. “Thank you, Comrade Emir. Methinks I wouldn’t do so well thrown right into things…”

The head healer was off again, hurrying down the hall. This time, Mirk was glad for the distraction of his quick pace. “The rest of the K’maneda might be full of lunatics, but we’re fairly rational here. No sense in wasting a set of hands on something they’re not suited to. Also, you can leave off the whole Comrade bit now. We don’t do that.”

“Ah…all right…”

Emir flashed him a tight-lipped grin. “I know, it’s hard to get out of the habit of acknowledging rank. But you get used to it. Just like you get used to everything in this place.”

“How long did it take you to stop calling people _ae’sil_?”

He came to a sudden halt, a look of confusion crossing his face. “Are my shields really that weak?”

Mirk shook his head, fighting to catch his breath again. “No…no, _Ae_ …euh, my father was fond of the Moorish half-breed angels. Three of our House guards came from there. Sir Kasim was wingless.”

Emir shook his head, continuing onward, albeit, thankfully, a bit more slowly. “Observant.”

He found himself cringing, despite himself. “Euh…I am very sorry? I don’t mean to notice things…”

“It’s not a problem. It’s only disconcerting. What the K’maneda knows about angels is principally limited to how to kill them.”

“Aren’t there any other full-bloods or half-breeds here?”

“A few. I think you’ve met the most notorious of them already. The Russian.”

Mirk laughed. “K’aekniv isn’t so bad once you get to know him.”

“Tell that to my nurses.”

They’d come to a large receiving room, full of rickety, uncomfortable wooden chairs that were almost all occupied by all manner of K’maneda in all manner of states of woe and frustration. The feeling of it made him take a momentary step back before he had the presence of mind to strengthen his shields. It made his stomach hurt to summon the magic, but it was better than feeling the cacophony of anger and pain all around him. 

Emir snorted, stepping up his pace again, whisking past the rows of black-clad men and women as if they weren’t even there. “A lot of malingerers today, I see.”

“Malingerers?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

He made a mental note to look the word up once he got back to his room, not that he was likely to be able to spell it. Taking a right at the first hallway past the waiting room, Emir led him into a warren of tiny rooms, each with some manner of table and cabinet in it, though he didn’t manage to get much of a look at any of them, having to concentrate mostly on keeping up with Emir. A few turns of the hall later, they came to a common room, of sorts—it had two long tables surrounded with beleaguered chairs, a few much-abused sofas pushed against the walls, a large cabinet full of various bottles and vials dominating one end of it. Papers were tacked to the walls everywhere, full of lists of names and times. It was empty at present, save for a woman and a man at the head of one of the tables, who were chatting listlessly with each other, looking very much the worse for wear. Emir led him over to them—Mirk was painfully aware of their scrutiny as they looked up at them, both of them giving him a sort of once over that was mirrored by a slight pushing on his shields. Mirk couldn’t tell whether that was intentional or not.

Emir waved a hand at them, rather dismissively. “We work in teams of three. Since Danu and Yule just lost their third, you’ll be with them for the time being.”

Mirk looked awkwardly between them—neither of them stood to offer a bow, nor did they seem ready to extend a hand to shake. He settled for a deferential half-bow of his own, unable to meet either of their stares. Nothing at all was like it used to be; he knew none of the customs of the K’maneda, none of their mannerisms, none of what he was supposed to be like. “Euh…it is an honor to meet you, _messieurs-dames_. Thank you for working with me.”

The man—slim, pale, auburn-haired and with a fine-featured face that practically screamed noble birth—shot the woman a skeptical look. “Honored? Really? I don’t anyone’s ever been honored to meet us.”

“Don’t be an ass,” the woman shot back, cuffing him in the shoulder. They seemed like they could almost be related, Mirk thought. Though the woman’s hair was a brilliant red and her nose and the tops of her cheeks were sprinkled with faint freckles, they both had the same sort of self-assured air to them, one he’d never seen outside noble balls. Were all healers like that? Mirk didn’t think he could manage to act like that all the time, even if he had the energy to try it. 

Emir sighed, giving Mirk another of those bracing pats on the shoulder, one of the touches mirrored by his sympathy. “They’re not as useless as they seem. At least, Danu isn’t. Anyway, I’ve got rounds.” Shooting the two healers a critical look—it carried some sort of emotional message with it, but Mirk couldn’t make out what—Emir turned on his heel and hurried off, moving at double speed now that he was unburdened of him.

Mirk chewed on his lip, wringing his hands behind his back, waiting for one of the healers to speak. Neither did. It was terribly rude for an inferior to address a superior without first being spoken to, but if there was anything he’d learned about the K’maneda thus far, it was that most everything they did was backwards from how he’d learned it. 

“What may I help you with?” he asked, weakly, retreating back into the most deferential terms that he’d been able to find in the dictionary in lieu of waiting to be spoken to. They still didn’t feel right—they felt too familiar, too dismissive. It was the whole “you” business. How could a general and a pauper both be the same “you”? It was one of those things that left him feeling unsteady, unable to focus. 

With a tired sigh, the woman stood, leaned across the table, and reached out a hand to him. “I’m sorry. We’re not used to high-born trainees. I’m Danu.”

A little relieved, Mirk reached out and took her hand, clasping it gently about the fingers and giving her another differential bow. He supposed a full one, complete with touch of lips to fingertips, wouldn’t be appreciated by a K’maneda. Too “royalist,” as Genesis was constantly complaining about his habits. Besides, the table was in the way—how anyone was supposed to greet another properly across a table was beyond him. “Mirk Dishoael d’Avignon. Your servant, _Madame_.”

Danu gave him a puzzled look. After a moment, the man, Yule, Mirk assumed, burst out laughing. “Madam! You!”

Cringing, Mirk involuntarily found himself taking a step backwards, wishing that his face wasn’t going as red as it felt like it was. Again, Danu whirled around and smacked Yule in the arm, this time with enough force to make him yelp. “Just because you’re an ass doesn’t mean everyone else on the planet is rude.”

Rolling his eyes, Yule got up and circled around to Mirk’s side of the table. It was all he could do not to back away from him—it helped, he supposed, that he was a sensible height, not miles tall like half the men of the Seventh were. “Look, here, it’s simple.” With an exaggerated grin, Yule waved at him. “Oy, name’s Yule. Wotcha?” 

Before Mirk could attempt to reply, Danu cut in. “He’s still being an ass. We’re not very formal here. Usually a hello and a given name are enough.”

“Euh…I’m very sorry, it’s… _alors_ …everyone is called by their given name, I’ll do my best to remember, Ma…Danu…” He found himself staring at the floor, frustrated. Why hadn’t anyone taught him anything useful? What was the point in knowing how to levitate pots if you couldn’t say hello right? Mirk supposed he should have expected that, considering who he had as a teacher. Genesis wasn’t exactly very good at being personable. 

A heavy sigh. “All right, all right…I’m just kidding with you, okay?” The arm around his shoulders took Mirk by surprise, jerking him out of his confusion. It was accompanied by a faint apologetic feeling, Yule tilting his head down a bit to meet his eyes. “Like she said, we’re used to getting drunks and crazies for trainees, not decent people.”

“ _Ouais, bien_ …” Mirk was a bit unsettled by the arm’s continued presence—was it normal for K’maneda to act so friendly with one another right away? 

“I didn’t upset you, did I? I wouldn’t ask, but I just can’t tell, you’ve got your damn shields turned up all the way.”

“Oh, no, no, not at all, si…com…I’m…it’s only…not strange, no, that means bad…surprise? Is that it? No one is so…close, no… _vous savez_...it’s like warm. Warm. Open.” Mirk slumped a bit in dismay, shaking his head. Explaining feelings in English was the hardest part of speaking it. Especially when he found himself overwhelmed by said feelings.

“Friendly?” Danu suggested.

“Ah! Yes, yes…thank you, that’s it.”

Yule stepped in front of him, seizing him by both shoulders. After months of no one coming near him, it felt strange to be talked to like a normal person, especially by a stranger. “Who the hell have they been keeping you with? No one’s _that_ much of a cold fish.”

“Euh…no one really. I was ill…Comrade Emir? And K’aekniv, I suppose…sometimes Mordecai…”

“The _Russians_?”

“Well, and there is Comrade Genesis, but he doesn’t like people very much.”

“ _Him?_ Christ, boy, no wonder you’re all messed up. Anyone would be after putting up with _that_. Tell you what, first round’s on me, then. You’ve probably earned it.”

Mirk found himself laughing, more out of relief than anything else. “He is a little…euh….”

With a final clap on both his shoulders, Yule let go of him. “No need to explain, we all understand. All right. At least it’ll probably be hard to scare you, then. Let’s go pull someone out of receiving and teach you how to stitch.”

\- - - - -

“Oh dear…what time is it, again?” 

“Eleven.” Without waiting for him to ask, Yule passed him the bottle. Mirk took a shallow drink. He hadn’t become accustomed to the burn of the potent liquor the healers used to dull their empathy yet, or the taste, but it was better than wasting a full dose of proper pain blockers too early in a shift. He passed the bottle on to Danu.

“You get used to it,” she said, as they watched the recovery nurses wheel their cursing and flailing former patient out of the treatment wing and onward toward recovery. “Sort of.”

Mirk had been surprised to learn that reattaching a severed limb, depending on severity, was a standard treatment room procedure, not something that got sent to the emergency healers. Feet were almost all standard treatment. And standard treatment meant only half doses of laudanum. Usually coupled with thick leather straps to keep the patient from moving around too much.

“Hey, anyone else dying out in receiving?” Yule asked a passing assistant. The man shrugged, flipping half-heartedly through his stack of admittance papers.

“No one’s bleeding enough to need the mop.”

Grimacing, Yule heaved himself to his feet. He’d been the one to fuse the bone, which had left him with what felt to Mirk like a terrible headache. Danu had been keeping the infantryman pinned, trying to magic his emotions into some semblance of normalcy. Mirk had done the half-flesh heal—just enough to get things started, not enough to reconnect everything—put on the potion that’d finish it over the course of the rest of the day, and sewn him up. Mirk was starting to understand why the healers never seemed to fix their patients completely with magic. Doing that would have him drained completely only an hour into the shift. “All right. Let’s restock. Let Sheila and hers deal with receiving for a while. Sticking a trainee group with a reattach…ungrateful bitch.”

“Euh, it…I learned a lot?” Mirk offered. Which he had. Mostly about what it felt like to have a severed foot.

Danu leaned across the table and ruffled his hair. It seemed to be her reflex gesture to use on him, whereas the one she used on Yule, invariably, was a smack on the shoulder. “It’s not a crime to complain, dear.”

Mirk laughed. “Habit?”

“Change it. You’ll make us all look bad.” Yule snorted.

Mirk was beginning, at last, to feel more comfortable with the way the healers talked and related to one another, even if he still felt hopelessly lost when it came to magic. It was comforting, in a way—they all had shielding, so a touch rarely hurt or shocked him, instead usually only conveying a projection of sympathy, concern, something like well-wishes. Half the time that was how they communicated, without words or gestures, instead with projections and a brush against the shoulder, a hand on the wrist. He still hadn’t quite managed to find the right level to hold his shielding at to keep the pain of the crowd in the waiting room at bay but still let other emotions in, but at least even the pain was hurting less than it had before. Perhaps he was, as Danu had said, getting used to it.

The supply room was at the far end of the wing, back beyond all the treatment rooms and workrooms. It was kept cold and dark to keep any of the potions from reacting and going bad, Danu had said. Locked, magically and physically, to keep patients out of the magic and mortal pain blockers. Yule fumbled around in the sleeve of his robe for his key ring, dismissing the magic locks with occult gestures from his free hand. After the three magic locks were waved away and the two physical ones undone, he opened the door and bumped the rune on the wall just inside it that activated the magelights. 

“Oh, hell.”

“What…do you want?”

Genesis was reorganizing the rack at the far end of the room, paying none of them much heed as he went about straightening the jars and packets, as if it was completely normal for him to be inside a locked room in the depths of the infirmary. Yule stormed in, shooing him away from the shelves. It took the threat of him laying hands on Genesis to get him to back away. Or, rather, limp away—the leg that he’d been able to force himself to walk normally on a week ago was now so badly wounded that he could barely put any weight on it. It was possible to tell exactly which shelves he’d been to by the bloody footprints on the floor.

So that was why he hadn’t seen much of him since he’d started his training in the infirmary. It was better, at least, than what Mirk had been worrying about. He’d been afraid that Genesis had decided that he didn’t need to bother with him anymore, not now that there were the other healers to look after him. Instead, he’d just been trying to avoid having to deal with any of the other healers poking at him.

“Can’t you just sit in the waiting room with the rest of the _normal_ patients?” Yule asked, taking a long look at Genesis’s leg. “You’ve been picking at that.”

“It…was not set evenly.” Genesis replied, flatly. It was easy to get the impression that Genesis didn’t like anyone. Which was mostly correct, Mirk was willing to admit. But by the set of his frown and the extra distance he kept from Yule, Mirk was able to tell that the commander _especially_ disliked him. “Thus, I required supplies to correct your shoddy workmanship.”

“You probably knocked it out of line by walking on it.”

“As I said. Shoddy…workmanship.”

“Fine!” Yule hissed, throwing his hands up in frustration, storming back the way he came, sidestepping Mirk and Danu without looking at them. “Then you get to break it yourself this time.”

The pain didn’t radiate off Genesis like it did most of the other patients, Mirk now saw, but he could tell he was suffering. The sparks of pain were more steady, sharper. He crossed over to Genesis’s side, looking down at his leg. His whole pant leg was saturated with blood. “ _Messire_ , you should have said something…”

Genesis sighed. “It is of little importance.” He began to limp off toward the door, still determinedly trying to move as normally as possible, though he could no longer keep from wincing as he did so. Mirk edged in front of him, blocking his way and shaking his head. 

“No, you’ll make it worse. Euh…walking sticks…ah…Danu?”

She’d beaten him to it, already bent over the long bin where they were usually kept. “Crutches. Someone must have stolen the last of them.”

“ _Tiens_ ,” Mirk said, circling to his side. “Use me, then.”

Danu burst out laughing—Genesis’s expression went cross, but she completely missed it, having fallen face-first into the bin from the force of her cackling. 

“What is it?” Mirk asked.

“Irrelevant.” Genesis snapped. 

Sighing, Mirk allowed himself to switch back into French—it was hard enough arguing with Genesis in a language he knew well. He’d never be able to convince him to come along and be healed if he was stuck using English and having to fight against him being in one of his moods. “If you lean on me, you’ll get there faster. And you’ll keep it from bleeding more. Though, it looks like you’ve ruined those trousers all the way already. Why didn’t you come in earlier? You know we wouldn’t keep you waiting too long. And it isn’t like you to waste good clothes.”

Genesis still refused to budge. “I…find the waste to be less tiresome than the healers.”

“Come now, _messire_ , don’t be like that. Being prideful never got anyone anywhere. Besides, I just put some poor man’s foot back on and it hurt terribly. I’ll have to start in on another round of blockers if you keep being stubborn about it.”

This, at least, got him to uncross his arms. “Ah. I see they are…well on their way to making you addicted to the accursed things.”

“I wouldn’t need so many if more patients did what we asked.”

Grudgingly, he put a hand on his shoulder, though he made a point to lean on him as little as possible as he began to hobble toward the door. “Meddling…miserable…”

It was time to resort to final measures, Mirk supposed. From what he’d seen thus far, Yule wasn’t very fond of waiting. “Genesis, please…let us help you.”

More pressure. Mirk couldn’t tell if he wasn’t actually leaning on him enough yet to take all the weight off of his injured leg, or if he was simply so thin that there wasn’t much weight to shift over to him. He put a supportive arm around his waist and kept pace with him, walking slowly so that Genesis was forced not to rush. He could just barely hear Danu chuckling as she trailed behind them.

Mirk hoped that Yule would be in the nearest examination room—and he was, cursing continually to himself, mixing something in one of the biggest potion bowls they had, barehanded. “Look, you ungrateful bastard, I’m even using your stupid magic water this time. Can you _try_ not to be a pain in the ass?”

“It is not…magic…water,” Genesis muttered as he eased himself onto the examination table. At least he was tall enough for it to not be much of a struggle, Mirk supposed. 

“Complete hocus pocus.”

“Magic water?” Mirk asked, drawing over to Yule’s side once he was sure Genesis was settled. It looked like plain water, still steaming from being drawn from the magicked taps a few rooms down that heated it. It had a faint unpleasant smell, one he didn’t recognize. 

“You see, Mirk, there’s magic, as in the useful things that mages can do, and then there’s _magic_ , like alchemy and believing that you have to put your hands in poisoned water before you work on a wound because apparently we’re all covered by tiny invisible insects.”

“Insects…are not involved.” Genesis said, crossing his arms once more, evidentially settling in for a protracted argument on the subject. “It is a serviceable…analogy, but incorrect nevertheless.”

“Fine, you explain it to the boy, then.”

“Disease…as all reasonable persons are aware…is spread by touch. Motes of it settle on all surfaces when the sick pass by or touch them. Thus, one must…properly clean oneself before touching an open wound, unless they wish…for the disease to spread.”

“So, invisible insects,” Yule said, wincingly lowering his hands into the water. “Ugh, this _stings_!”

“That is how…one is certain of its effectiveness.” 

“It can’t be effective if there isn’t anything there!” Yule snapped. He whisked one hand out of the bowl and made a sharp gesture at the window set in the back wall of the examination room. “Look, we even have windows in every goddamn exam room! We leave them open three hours a day even in winter! It’s perfectly safe!”

Genesis frowned. “I fail to see what open windows have to do with anything.”

Rolling his eyes, Yule wiped his hands off on the front of his robes. “Do I tell you how to kill people?”

Genesis cringed away from Yule as he approached, disgusted. “Wash them again.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You touched…your clothes. Your clothes are infected. Wash them…again.”

Yule stomped back to the bowl, pointedly splashing his hands around in the water. Mirk was beginning to see exactly why the healers tended to groan and shake their heads every time Genesis’s name came up. Mirk had had no idea that his strange superstitions revolving around cleanliness were so detailed.

Before Yule could come back to his side, Genesis gestured vaguely at Danu. “You…cut off the necessary fabric. Doubtlessly your scissors are filthy.”

“We clean them twice a day!” Yule spat, as he crossed back to the examination table, hands held awkwardly out and away from himself. 

“As I said.”

Yule glanced back at Mirk while Danu went about cutting off his pants leg, still laughing under her breath and shaking her head. “Do you see now? He’s horrible!”

Mirk gave a helpless sort of shrug. “Everyone has…euh, ideas? Like religion.”

Genesis shook his head. “Religion…is nonsense. This is fact.”

Yule ignored him as he bent down to examine his wounded leg. There was a horrible cut on it, running from knee to ankle, the skin all around his leg bruised, swollen, and sickly-looking. “Oh, it gets worse than his stupid invisible insects. Wait and see.”

“It will not stay shut. I have…sewn it closed seven times.”

“Either your magic is eating it, or it’s from walking on it like it’s not hurt. Probably both. But you’re right, it is starting to heal itself crooked. Do me a favor and force it straight. If I have to do that myself, there’s no way I’m getting through to fuse it.”

As Genesis prodded at his leg, considering how to go about straightening it, Yule backed away from the table until he was pressed against the far wall of the room. Danu soon joined him and, reluctantly, Mirk followed.

“If you stand too close, his magic will think you’ve done it,” Danu explained. “Sometimes if it’s really nasty you have to go stand out in the hall.”

“What do you mean, his…his magic will think?”

“Well, we’re not sure whether it thinks or not, but it doesn’t do what he tells it to. There’s a pattern to it, though. Like it thinks.”

“Thinks like a rabid dog,” Yule snorted.

The wet-sounding snap took Mirk by surprise—he hadn’t been watching Genesis closely enough to see him move. Though he’d braced himself internally for a spike of pain, it never came. Genesis didn’t so much as flinch when he pushed the bottom half of his leg straight, nor did he while he fiddled with it, nudging it imperceptibly this way and that.

“Why does it not hurt?”

“Pain…is merely caused by a lack of concentration. If one sits still…and focuses the mind on a single thing…it can be ignored.” True enough, as Genesis spoke, Mirk began to feel the pain slip through his chaos again. It disappeared once more as soon as he fell silent.

“Basically, he’s a freak of nature,” Yule said.

“But a useful freak of nature,” Danu added. “And, most importantly, _our_ freak of nature.”

Though Genesis didn’t comment on this exchange, his expression had gone resentful as he settled back on the table, laying his hands flat on its surface at his sides. As if he wanted them all to see, clearly, that he was doing nothing with them. Sucking in a deep breath, Yule approached him. Mirk moved to follow but Danu shook her head, putting a restraining arm across his chest. 

He soon saw why. Before Yule could even touch Genesis’s leg, a coil of shadow whipped out from under the examination table, lightning fast, and smacked him away. He cursed at the pain, but somehow managed not to grab at his side where it’d hit at him. Visibly bracing himself, he tried again to touch him. That time, he managed to get his hands around his leg and summon a spark of healing magic before the shadows hurled him off.

Yule tried again. 

And…again.

“Goddamn it, can’t you do _anything_?” Yule hissed. That time the shadows had grabbed him by the ankles and pulled his legs out from under him, dragging him partway under the table. He still had his hands held out and away from himself, even though it meant not being able to break his falls.

Danu sighed, pushing up the sleeves of her robes. “I’ll distract it. We’ve already earned a light afternoon.”

Before Mirk could think to ask about what it was, exactly, that she was going to do, she’d pushed herself away from the wall and taken up a defensive stance near the window. With a shudder, she changed—it seemed all the life drained from her, all the color, her eyes shifting to black and the faint feeling of her presence that was always there despite her shielding vanishing. In its place was a horrible feeling of coldness, of void, like the sinking feeling one got in the midst of falling, knowing that pain was coming but being unable to prevent it. The shadows were drawn to it, snaking out in droves and coiling around her until she was entirely obscured by them. Though they jerked her occasionally in the direction of the window, they never got very far.

“Come here, quick,” Yule said, knocking him out of his dazed study of the shadows and Danu. Mirk crossed the room and knelt down beside him. “You don’t even have touch him. Just try feeling your way through this mess.”

Biting his lip against the inevitable waves of feeling it’d let in, Mirk closed his eyes, banished most of his shielding, and reached out with his mind as if to begin the process of healing, searching for misalignment and drawing energy from his center to nudge things right.

He instantly felt what Yule was talking about. Whereas he’d found it easy to feel the misalignments and disruptions in all the bodies he’d worked on thus far, it was impossible to make sense of Genesis. _Everything_ felt out of place, disjointed, strange and twisted. Even worse, when he began to make sense of a bit of it, began to see how the injury differed from the general disorder, the whole of it shifted, becoming impossibly jumbled again. It made him feel nauseous, as if he was being spun around. 

“How…euh…” It was hard for him to think of the right words while keeping any grip at all on the shifting magic.

“Don’t know. Over ten goddamn years and I have no idea.”

“So, how…”

Yule laughed, his fatigue coming through to Mirk in waves now that his shielding was lowered. “You blast at the first bit you see with all the energy you’ve got and hope for the best.”

“It generally…fails.” Genesis said, flatly.

“Not my fault if it doesn’t work now. You’ve cursed it.”

“I think…myself cursed enough as it is.”

Mirk didn’t think he could find much of an argument against that. Especially when Yule’s attempt at healing him only put a faint dent in the misaligned area Mirk could make out, only faintly, within the chaos. It didn’t seem fair, didn’t seem _right_ that a person should be made so that they couldn’t be put back together again.

Then again, as Genesis was fond of saying, life and fairness rarely had anything to do with each other.


	3. Chapter 3

“What are you still doing here?”

The voice broke Mirk’s concentration, made the patterns he thought he’d memorized dissolve again into meaningless pieces of an indistinct whole. Sighing, he set down his needle and glanced up at the entrance to the surgical suite. It was Danu, looking nearly as exhausted as he felt, leaning against the doorframe and hugging herself for warmth despite the thick sweater she’d pulled on over her robes. Summoning the death-based half of her magic always left her freezing, she said.

“Methinks it’s not nice…euh, _non, c’est à dire_ …cold? Sad? Well. Something like that.”

“What is?”

“Not closing all the wounds.”

They’d been pulled out of their normal rounds for the first time only a month ago, and already it’d happened twice after that. Yule, he’d learned, was the only healer they had whose orientation was chaotic rather than orderly. Whenever Genesis was injured, he got called in to handle it, no matter how many times he explained he couldn’t do much of anything with him. He’d seen the crowds of nurses and healers that flocked around the injured patients who were close to death, which was why Mirk had been shocked to find only one healer waiting for them in the surgical suite they’d put Genesis in, the tall, severe woman who was the head of surgery, Eva, doing nothing but keeping two fingers on his neck and watching the clock, completely ignoring the fact that he was clearly all but dead.

They all pretended to shrug those incidents off, for the most part, though he could tell it bothered some of them. It made Danu feel frightened; it always made Yule angry. It made Mirk feel a strange mixture of melancholy and terror to see Genesis like that, more a mess of parts than a human body. _He always comes out of it eventually,_ Eva had said, _as long as his pulse stays above thirty. At forty we start trying to put things back together. It doesn’t matter if he’s breathing or not._

No one had explained to him how it worked. Everyone he asked simply shook their head, said that Destroyers were too rare for them to have any way to know what was normal. They said it’d be the same for a Creator. Though no one had actually ever come across one of those. Mirk supposed none of them could be blamed for not knowing. They couldn’t be blamed for not trying harder to find out either, not really. Someone could get hurt if they tried healing Genesis while he was like that, lifeless and mangled. People had gotten hurt. Broken arms and ribs and ankles. The shadows didn’t show any mercy.

Still, Mirk didn’t think it was right. _Why_ he felt that way, he wasn’t sure—perhaps because Genesis seemed to feel so responsible for his well-being, it didn’t feel right for him not to care for the commander in the same way. The other healers said he shouldn’t bother worrying. They said Genesis didn’t care about only ever being healed just barely, left alone to sew himself up. Genesis even claimed to prefer it. He should have respected his wishes. But he couldn’t shake the memory of something his mother had said to him once while they’d been waiting for another noble family’s blind daughter to come down from her chambers to meet with them and discuss her equally blind father’s heirless fortune— _if all you know is darkness, then you can’t miss the light._

Did that mean it was right to leave him in the dark? Just because he knew nothing else? Even if he might somehow be dragged up into the light?

“They don’t bother you?”

Mirk shook himself out of his woolgathering, trying to focus on the distant feeling of Danu’s aching presence. “What?”

She jerked her head down at the floor. The shadows were there, as always. Though they curled around his legs and he could feel their cold, staticky energy, they didn’t seem inclined to fight with him. Not then, anyway. “They’re not hurting me.”

“No…I guess not. He must be too tired.”

Mirk made an attempt at a smile. “They may be used to me.”

“They didn’t seem very used to you when Yule was trying to get at his chest.”

“I…I don’t know,” Mirk sighed, kicking a bit at the shadows. The static feeling rose up in them, but they still didn’t try to knock him over. It reminded him of the other thing about it all that had been frustrating him—exactly _how_ did Genesis get himself so injured? How did he do it so often? Was it a purposeful thing? A strange, self-destructive kind of apathy? A determination that left no room for surrender, even when it was obvious what he had to do was going to nearly kill him? And if he had fought to the end, why was there still so much magic left in him by the time he’d been scraped off whatever entryway or courtyard he’d dragged himself to and brought to the healers? “Maybe you’re right about them being tired.”

“Speaking of tired, you’ve been in here two hours, you know. You’ve been on the ward for twelve.”

Mirk could find no way to reply other than to shrug. 

“Go home, Mirk.”

“I only have a little bit left. And…I don’t know. I hope…maybe…”

He glanced back down at Genesis’s lifeless body. When he was like that, even when his pulse rose to fifty, which was normal for him, he didn’t seem to need to breathe. It made him look deader than he really was. 

“What?” Danu asked.

“There is a pattern to how he’s made. No, maybe…a not-pattern? _Sais pas._ But there is a normal, methinks. It’s…just hard to see.”

“What does that have to do with why you’re still here?”

“Well, methinks he wouldn’t put up with someone looking at him for hours if he was awake.”

Danu laughed as she turned to leave. “Fair enough.” She paused, glanced back over her shoulder at him. “At least go get some rest before your next shift starts, all right?”

Mirk nodded. “Of course.” 

Which was the truth. He always went back to his room once his vision started to go vague and the world drifted off-kilter.

Genesis didn’t care much for crooked stitches.

\- - -

They were at the table in the common room again, as always, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for an aide to come in from the waiting room with the next worst-off patient clinging to their arm. However, before that could happen, a nurse from surgery appeared, one of the shell-shocked ladies who attended with Comrade Eva and seemed to be perpetually blood-spattered. This one was more mortified than usual.

“We need Yule again,” she said, staying just long enough for Yule to raise a hand in confirmation before hurrying back off through the waiting room and down the hall that connected the normal ward to critical, and critical to surgery. 

Yule got to his feet slowly, cracking his neck. “Oh, great. And here I was, thinking we’d be able to go a month without dealing with this.”

“Better nearly a month than nearly a week,” Danu mumbled.

Mirk got to his feet and followed along after the other two healers without comment. They only came across him in the infirmary, Mirk supposed. They couldn’t know that nearly a month was about how long Genesis had been missing for. 

It happened all the time, K’aekniv had said. He’d said not to worry. Two months, three, he always came back. Like a lost dog. He’d said not to ask him where he’d been, or why he didn’t say anything before leaving. He’d said that only led to fighting. Still, even knowing that, even knowing that every time they were called over to surgery he was broken and bled dry but ultimately turned out to be fine, the uneasy feeling didn’t leave him. 

They’d come to the division between the wards, where they could see the long hall that led from the entrance into the depths of the infirmary, when Danu froze. It was so sudden Mirk crashed into her, nearly knocking her over. She didn’t seem to notice.

“What is it?” Yule turned and asked, once he noticed that they weren’t following after him.

“It’s uncle.” Danu said, voice distant, almost awed, Mirk thought.

“Uncle?” Mirk looked around, confused. Just the normal staff, the normal ranks of wounded.

She glanced over at him only for a second, just to see where his hand was and grab hold of it. “Uncle Ankou.”

Mirk looked off in the direction Danu was facing, toward the entrance hall. At the very far end of it was a tall figure dressed all in white, too far away for Mirk to make out many of its features. But not far enough away for him not to notice that it was walking through the clusters of healers and aides that always littered the hall rather than around them. 

“Ah…”

“Uncle isn’t like me. He’s a Scythe Bearer. They only come for things that don’t usually die. Like Times. And Patchworks. And…well…”

“Oh, hell, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Yule groaned.

Instead of responding, Danu took hold of his hand as well and dragged them both, at a run, toward the surgical wing. That time, they didn’t need to be directed to the right surgical chamber. It was obvious enough where they had him from the shouting. The nurse who was suddenly thrown out into the hall by an unseen force only reinforced it.

Only Comrade Eva and four of her assistants were in the chamber, all of them backed up against the wall closest to the door. If he hadn’t seen it before, Mirk thought, it would have been a funny scene—a group of mages straining to get as far away as possible from a lifeless body without a trace of magic about it on a table across the room from them. They sidled in beside the group. Neither Mirk nor Yule attempted to break Danu’s iron hold on them.

Eva nodded at them over the heads of her assistants. Usually Eva let them go instead of forcing them to wait for Yule’s team to appear, knowing that it was futile to keep putting them through the strain of trying to heal Genesis. This time, they all seemed determined to stay, no matter the danger. “It’s worse than usual. Five minutes, no pulse. Demon or not, he has to be all but dead.”

Yule sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. “Suppose we should go in together, then. Well. It’s worth a shot, anyway.”

“I can’t hold off his magic and keep in his soul at the same time,” Danu said. “If I can find it to begin with.”

“No time to figure it out,” Yule shot back. He tugged sharply on her arm. “Just try whatever you can think of.” He paused before plunging onward. “It’d help if the nurses would decoy, though.”

Mirk could barely keep up with it all. Without having to be urged on by Eva, the nurses had soon linked arms and started toward the table. They were halfway to it before Genesis’s magic responded, shadows twisting out from under the surgical bed and slamming into them from all sides. The chain of women were shoved backward but held steady against them, their various magicks escaping the shadows only in weak, multi-colored glimmers. 

Eva moved next, going around the nurses to the left. She got closer, drawing almost within arm’s reach of the table before enough shadows could gather to hold her back as well. As soon as it was clear she was stuck, Yule pulled them forward, to the right of the nurses. Past the nurses. Past Eva, within stretching distance. Yule reached out with one hand, nearly grabbing hold of Genesis’s lifeless arm. 

Then the shadows came, coiling thick around his wrist, forcing him away. Cursing, he strained against them—he stopped slipping backwards, but couldn’t make any headway either. Mirk felt the flare of cold that meant Danu had shifted, and though she drew off a large portion of the shadows, it still wasn’t enough. His magic, pure chaos that used the shadows as a vector, chaos that was made to rip and tear and rend until nothing was left, chaos that existed to unmake all that’d been pulled out of the void and put into order and given life, was horribly strong.

Mirk searched his memory for something, anything that might help, anything that would make him more than a dead-weight decoy, trying to ignore the thought of the pale figure he’d seen advancing up the hall. How far would it have come, now? To the hall that lead off to the basement? To the entry to the critical wing?

There was the dull sound of pottery breaking. He glanced over toward its source—Eva had knocked over, in her struggling, the instrument table and the pot that customarily sat on its edge, the one with the mint plant in it that the healers and nurses took leaves off of to chew during surgeries, to take the edge off the smell and taste of the almost-dead. He stared at the fallen plant for a moment, then tentatively reached out his mind to it, not knowing if it was capable of doing what he was thinking of, or even if he himself was capable of it. With all the concentration he could gather out of the shambles inside him, he shoved aside his emotions—the fright, the anger, the panic—and thought of growing. 

It felt like a heavy pressure on his chest, the life force leaving him and draining into the plant. But the roots responded, curling thick and bone-white out of the mess of dirt they’d been twined in, creeping across the floor in quick inches. Yule startled when they began to crawl up his back, but they kept him from being hurled backwards, climbing out across his shoulders and down his arms like they were trellises, wrapping around the shadows. The order magic crackled off them in showers of white sparks when they touched the shadows’ chaos, but they kept growing as long as Mirk kept forcing his life energy into them, meeting every new curl of darkness with a tangle of roots. They lifted enough of the shadows off of Danu for her to break free of them and finally reach Genesis’s body, dragging Mirk along with. A few seconds later, Yule popped free of the shadows as well, though he was too tangled in the roots to do much more than flop a hand over onto Genesis’s chest.

Mirk felt it rather than heard it—when she channeled the death inside of her, Danu’s shields disintegrated, making it so that if she thought about something hard enough everyone around her could hear. _He’s still here, but half gone. I have half. But Ankou can take whatever he wants._

Yule spoke aloud—he’d worked his fingers into one of the deeper wounds in his chest, one that looked ugly but couldn’t have been severe enough to cause so much damage. He’d have to locate and stabilize the injury with magic. “For fuck’s sake…fucking always crush injuries with him…okay, I think I feel it…yeah, tear in the aorta. Got enough magic to hold it closed. Don’t think I can heal it.”

“I’ll try,” Mirk choked out.

Mirk could feel his doubt. It wasn’t as strong as his own, but it was there. Concentrating on remembering the patterns inside Genesis that he’d tried to memorize was giving him a blinding headache—he had barely enough free life force to manage to think so deeply. Inch by painstaking inch, he drew up closer to Genesis’s body, until he could lay a hand on his chest beside Yule’s. 

Mirk felt Yule’s magic surge into Genesis’s body, and cast his out alongside it, following it to the injury. He forced his mind through Genesis’s residual magic—he could look, he could hold, but he couldn’t mend, not without the full of his life energy back. The patterns were there. He could feel a faint rhythm in the static of his magic, something that should have been a heartbeat, a pulse the patterns were still nevertheless shifting to. The pulse was weakest around where the injury was, the chaos falling out of synch with itself and causing his magic to drain away from that point. He’d only have one chance to guess the right patterns to weld the injury back into. There wasn’t time for mistakes.

With each pulse, Mirk tried to force himself to move. But he was frozen, the fright and uncertainty overwhelming his will. Distantly, he heard Danu gasp, and he found himself looking up.

The pale figure was on the other side of the table, impossibly tall, face humanoid but utterly impassive, its eyes nothing but a hollow blackness. It’d lifted Danu’s hand off Genesis’s arm.

_Uncle, no…_

The figure didn’t respond verbally. Instead, it reached out its other hand and slipped it effortlessly through Genesis’s chest. Though Mirk couldn’t see it, he could feel his life, faint and cold, pass through his hand and magic. 

It wasn’t a calculated move—it was instinctual, forced up on a wave of protest, rebellion against the scene passing slow before his eyes. It couldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t _let_ it be happening. He drew all his life energy back into himself in one movement, the force of it nearly knocking him over, then slammed it down in the pattern he believed, no, _knew_ was next.

Mirk didn’t see what happened in response. But he heard a rattling, watery gasp as the shadows, released from the now slackened roots, flung them all at the far wall of the chamber.

He was unsure whether he’d passed out of consciousness or not. The next thing he was aware of, however, was sitting up to the sound of Yule cursing Genesis’s magic and the sight of the pale figure staring at him from across the room, on the far side of the surgical table. A moment later, it dissolved into nothing.

Mirk heard himself laughing. Then everything faded into a comforting, familiar darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear, Gen's not exactly human. I believe it's finally mentioned in this section that he's a Destroyer (ooooh how ~dramatick~ *rolls eyes at self*), which is actually what does more to make his body work all strange-like than the fact that he's a half-blood does. (Half-demon. Even more ~dramatick~, though, demons aren't exactly super awesome lords of darkness in this canon. But we'll get to that later.) I'll be honest, he's pretty damn overpowered. But everyone in this canon is sort of stupid powerful, so it's not as much of an advantage as you'd think.
> 
> Anyway, I also apologize for any sort of messed up anatomy/medical stuff, I'm still trying to learn it all.


	4. Chapter 4

Genesis had been asleep for three days. He still looked as dead as when Mirk had first seen him after waking up himself.

During those three days, Mirk hadn’t left the infirmary, always either unconscious, eating to recover his strength, or tending to the laborious project of putting Genesis back together. Keeping the commander from dying had taken up so much of his life energy that he could barely summon any healing magic of his own yet. Instead, he was using potions and pastes and poultices to piece together bone and flesh. In his more optimistic moments, he tried to think of it as an extended anatomy and technique study. 

Mostly, though, it just made Mirk frustrated.

According to the Watch member who’d dragged in his lifeless body, he’d found Genesis in a heap in an alleyway that ran off from the large courtyard that surrounded the Glass Tower. Put together with the kind of injuries he was finding, Mirk could guess at what had happened. He’d jumped off the Tower, probably aiming for the roof of one of the taller buildings that ringed the courtyard, and had missed. Considering that he’d actually hit the ground with some force, he had to have expended so much of his magic beforehand that he couldn’t summon enough shadows to break his fall. How exactly that had happened, Mirk didn’t know. He’d certainly had a lot of magic in him again by the time he’d been taken into surgery. 

And Genesis wasn’t giving him any answers. Not yet, anyway.

Biting his lip, Mirk gave up on trying to stitch up the last of the strange, runic cuts on his forearms and stomped off to the chair he’d dragged into the corner of Genesis’s recovery room, flopping down onto it with a huff. Three days he’d been working on him, and still, no sign of life. Mirk wondered if Genesis wasn’t doing it on purpose, playing dead until he’d finished healing him so that he could sneak off without having to explain himself.

He knew the fatigue was making him cross, not himself. But wasn’t he entitled to being a little cross, just for once? He had saved the man’s life, after all. Again.

Mirk was so lost in his own head, in arguing with himself over whether or not it was right to be angry with Genesis, that he didn’t notice that the commander was awake until he cleared his throat and spoke.

“…ah. Mirk. This…is different than…I’d anticipated.”

Mirk launched himself out of the chair, at Genesis’s side in an instant, his anger vanishing into relief, relief he felt stupid for feeling. The commander was staring blankly up at the ceiling, unblinking.

“Gen! _Bon sang de bonsoir, c’est…ce n’est pas…votre…_ ”

Laboriously, Genesis lifted one hand, stemming the flow of the diatribe Mirk had been saving for when the commander finally woke up. “I will…explain. Momentarily.”

For a moment, Mirk was too stunned by his nonchalance to respond. Then, half in frustration and half in joy, he seized Genesis by the midsection and hugged him, tightly. This caused flickers of pain to radiate off of the commander; Mirk ignored them. He deserved it, anyway, he thought to himself. Guiltily. Which only made him more frustrated. “You could have _died_!”

Mirk refused to let him go until Genesis had at least given him a pat on the back. “Yes…you do…have a point.”

Genesis tried to sit up. Mirk looped an arm around him and helped, lest he strain himself too much and break one of the dozens of sutures and spells holding him together. It was easy to move him. The commander had grown alarmingly thin during the month he’d been away. Mirk could fit his fingers into the grooves between his ribs. “Before you get ideas, _messire_ , you’re not leaving. I haven’t even started on your knees, for one thing.”

“Yes…fine…” Genesis moved to run a hand over his long, snarled black hair, but his shoulder was unwilling to cooperate with his efforts, making an upsetting popping noise. He must have assumed that since he could bend his arm at the elbow, the rest of it would obey just as well. 

“Leave it.”

Genesis frowned, making a second attempt at it.

“ _Tiens_ ,” Mirk sighed, gently pushing down his hand. “I’ll brush it. Your shoulders still confuse me, so they’re not all healed yet. I’ll probably need Yule’s help, once he decides to stop sulking. But if I’m going to help you, _messire_ , it’s only fair that you help me. Where have you been?”

Genesis shook his head. “It is complex.”

“Well, your hair is a mess. You’ll have plenty of time to explain.”

Though Mirk turned his back to him when he went to the room’s supply cupboard to hunt for a hairbrush, he could still feel Genesis staring after him, somehow. “You…are upset.”

“Yes! I worry about you, Genesis. Maybe Niv and the rest are used to you disappearing and coming back half-dead, but I’m not.” Finding the brush at the back of one of the bottommost shelves, he snatched it up and returned to the commander’s bedside. Genesis looked uncharacteristically puzzled.

“You…worry. About me.”

“Of course!”

“I…see.”

Mirk began to work at coaxing the tie out of his hair, sitting down on the edge of the bed. It’d take a while—his hair was thicker than he’d been expecting, matted in places. “You’re my friend, Genesis. Everyone else might be too stubborn to say it, but the rest of your friends have been plenty worried about you too. Niv’s started losing feathers.”

“That’s because he’s incapable of…grooming himself,” Genesis muttered. 

“See? People depend on you.” It wasn’t what Genesis had been getting at when he complained about the half-angel’s lackadaisical attitude toward personal hygiene, but Mirk wasn’t about to pass up such a good opportunity to emphasize his point. 

“Which is precisely…why I’ve done all this.” 

“Oh?”

“With this assignment, I’ve accumulated all the…credentials to obtain the rank of five star assassin.” 

Mirk could tell from the awkward expression on Genesis’s face, the one with a rigid grin but furrowed brows, that he was proud of this accomplishment. He never could convey emotions he didn’t feel often very well. “That’s…good? Did you have to take some kind of test?”

“No. To become a five star assassin…one must kill another five star.”

The commander didn’t sound concerned in the slightest by the implications of this. Mirk, however, found himself pausing, trying to remember the faces of all the assassins he’d treated. “Who…?”

Genesis made a dismissive noise. “A horrid man. You can’t have known him. He only took healing from the Tenth. Being touched by someone as…impure as a member of the Twentieth was unacceptable to him, being a…wingless angel of pure blood.” 

“I suppose not,” Mirk mumbled, as he returned to fixing Genesis’s hair. The tie was hopelessly stuck in it; he snapped it and picked out the pieces. Genesis voiced no complaints.

“I believe he was contemplating…eliminating you, in any case. There is no cause for sympathy.”

Mirk stopped again, a sudden tightness rising in his chest. “Me?”

“Any…associate of mine is always worth killing, in the opinion of certain individuals. That’s without taking into account the racial aspect. Or that you’ll be using your own not inconsiderable powers…for the benefit of lowborn easterners rather than their miserable…Teutonic nobility.”

Beginning at the ends of his hair, Mirk began brushing, hoping the methodical process of working out the snarls in it would help to make him feel less shaky. A strained silence fell between them. He couldn’t think of anything breezy or casual to say to change the subject.

“I…do apologize for the first point. Incidentally.”

Instantly, Mirk shook his head, despite knowing that Genesis couldn’t see it. “It’s not your fault. I only…why would anyone hate you so much?”

Genesis gave a humorless laugh. “I am a Destroyer. It earns one few friends.”

“So? You can’t help who you are, _messire_.”

“Irrelevant. In any case. Having…earned the highest rank, I am now…entitled to the highest paying assignments. They cannot deny me that any longer without breaking face. Nor can they…deny me a proper modicum of influence. It improves our position as a whole.” Genesis’s voice took on a darker tone as he continued. “In short order, I expect to regain officer status in the Seventh.”

That had been a sore point for the commander for months now, Mirk had gathered. _Technically_ he wasn’t a commander any longer; instead he was some complicated mish-mash of titles that meant next to nothing. Mirk couldn’t help but feel responsible for it. Genesis had failed to protect his family; he’d accordingly been demoted. If he hadn’t been so useless, Mirk thought, he could have provided Genesis with enough support to hold back the House Rose demons and Montigny mages who’d killed everyone. And the _Lis de la Rivière_ wouldn’t be nothing but a smoking crater, and _maman_ would still be alive, and _Aena_ and Kae and all the rest wouldn’t have died trying to save him, and Father Jea—

“However, being…confined to bed is not very productive. For any project.”

Shaking his head to clear it, Mirk made himself refocus on Genesis’s hair. “You need to rest. But I’ll bring you your books if you’ll promise to stay in bed.”

“Hmph…bribery…”

“Methinks you wouldn’t listen otherwise.”

“I am not…some kind of ch—”

“Genesis! You live!”

Genesis let out a string of curses in his hissing and clicking native tongue, the one none of them understood and that caused him to litter his English with unnatural pauses and phrases. Mirk looked up at the source of the booming, gleeful voice. K’aekniv was wedging himself through the door to Genesis’s room, his wings catching on the jambs and leaving behind clumps of dirty silver-white feathers on them. Mirk waved to him, feeling a bit better already due to his presence. K’aekniv’s emotions were always so strong that not even the best shielding kept them all out, and his good humor was particularly infectious. 

“Oh, hello, Niv! You’re lucky, he just woke up.”

Unceremoniously, K’aekniv plunked himself down on the half of the bed Genesis’s narrow frame left empty, grinning and taking his face in both hands. Genesis looked horrified.

“Come! You missed me!”

“…no.”

“Bastard!” But K’aekniv said it with a laugh, and accompanied the curse with the obligatory kiss of good health on both cheeks. Genesis hit ineffectively at him with his half-crippled arms, hissing.

“Get…off.”

Instead, he inflicted the final part of the customary greeting on him, the part that usually got left out in an act of self-preservation—a smack of a kiss on the lips.

“Niv, you’ll make him break his stitches,” Mirk warned, though he was laughing so hard he could barely get the words out.

“Bah! Who cares? It makes him happy to be miserable anyway,” K’aekniv said, though he was wise enough to relent before Genesis could force his hands to raise high enough to strangle him. 

“I…detest…”

“But I’ve been so lonely!” K’aekniv interjected before Genesis could finish. “No one to bitch at me in the morning, no one to make the bed cold at night…do you know how much it costs to have the whores stay all night for a month? Terrible!”

“You’re terrible,” Genesis muttered.

“And you love it! But, anyway, tell me, how did you finally kill that Purist bitch, eh? The middle of the afternoon, and he comes falling from the sky onto the parade grounds with his head cut in half. We all decided it was a sign from God and took the rest of the day off.”

“If you…found the body…I would think the cause to be evident.”

“Fine, how did you catch him? We’ve been trying to kill Aeli since we were in the Academy.”

“First...it was necessary to locate an Abyssal construct of proper size and proportion, and use the…whole of its blood for the weapons…cursing spell established in accordance with the procedure outlined in Ovgeny’s _Void Magicks Grimoire_. The fifth edition, of course, as the first thr—”

K’aekniv rolled his eyes, leaning with a defeated sigh against the wall the bed was pushed up beside, making the bedframe creak in protest. Though the half-angel and the commander were the same absurd height, K’aekniv was as broad and heavily muscled as Genesis was narrow and thin. It was a wonder, Mirk thought, that the bed hadn’t already collapsed. “Fine, fine, whatever. You are the only person who can make killing someone boring. Little brother,” he said, craning his neck so that he could see him around Genesis, “how long until he’s fixed? The summer campaigns are over soon. We need him for the last.”

“Methinks it’ll be a little while more,” Mirk said, hesitantly. Though it was hard to tell just from looking at him, by how he forced himself to sit with back ramrod straight and his injured shoulders squared as much as possible, Genesis was still very weak. “If he rests, it won’t be as long.”

“I…doubt it will take long…in any case.”

It was like the magelight in the room had gone off: in an instant, K’aekniv’s emotions shifted from carefree to focused, concerned, though the expression on his face didn’t change. Mirk did his best not to wince. “They want to leave us for dead in the mountains, Alistair’s stupid southerners. They think we can’t see them scouting, but Ilya has.”

Genesis considered this for a time as Mirk returned to brushing out his hair. “I’d rather not leave the City immediately. However, I shall…make arrangements.”

“Eh?”

“North…has been in my debt for some time now. His men…will accompany you. At the proper time.”

Again, the shift was instantaneous. K’aekniv’s contented mood returned, though at a reduced force, enough so that Mirk knew he no longer risked getting a headache from it. “Ah, yes. The First has good men, even if they’re all Bavarians.”

Though there was a certain comfort in hearing them continue to talk, in the reassuring pattern to their bickering that came from being friends for ages, it also made a certain feeling of melancholy well up in him. Mirk wished he could be useful, wished he knew what they were talking about instead of only understanding an occasional bit of it. But he was useless for fighting, and if a person hadn’t been through the infirmary, he wasn’t likely to know them. K’aekniv and Genesis seemed to know everyone. Genesis definitely did. He made it his business, even if it really wasn’t. And there was something else fueling the melancholy too, something deeper, more emotional, but the feeling was too foreign for Mirk to identify the source of it, even if it was buried somewhere inside his own head. Was he simply that relieved? Or overtired? His worries were interrupted shortly, however, by the commotion caused by K’aekniv shoving himself back up onto his feet, stretching his wings, responding to something Genesis had said that Mirk hadn’t taken note of. 

“Enough! You’re making me tired. And it’s time for dinner, anyway.” He turned to Mirk with an easy smile, reaching over and placing one giant palm on the crown of his head, swiveling his face upward enough so that he could actually meet his eyes. It was still disconcerting to Mirk, seeing red eyes set in a face with perfect angelic pureblood coloration. Though the masculinity of K’aekniv’s features and his ratty, tarnished silver hair helped detract from the uncanniness some. “Keep him from running away, eh? I will bring you something. Hell, I’ll go take something from the officers’ dining hall.”

Mirk chuckled as K’aekniv let go of him. “Don’t get yourself in trouble.”

“Me? Trouble? Who do you think I am?”

Laughing to himself, K’aekniv barged his way back out into the hall. The sudden stillness in the room once he was gone caused an emotional echo, almost. The half-angel had a way of filling a space all the way, no matter what the size. Blinking a few times to dispel the feeling, Mirk focused back in on what he was doing. Genesis had begun to lose the war against his fatigue, wilting into a defeated and sullen slouch. “Why don’t you get some rest, _messire_?” Mirk asked, making room for Genesis to lie down again. “You shouldn’t strain yourself.”

Genesis glanced back at him over one immobile shoulder. His fatigue was plain to be seen, his skin ashen, eyes lacking their usual critical focus. It made their unnatural light blue color dull rather than cold and stark. “Perhaps…you have a point. I am useless like this,” he added, looking back at his immobile legs. Mirk had retrieved a set of the odd, Moorish-looking trousers he slept in, thinking he’d be somewhat less intractable about everything if he didn’t wake up and find himself naked. It also kept Mirk from having to stare at his legs’ malformations and cuts and bruises while he was fixing the rest of him.

“I’m sorry…it’ll take another day or two to finish it. And I still don’t know about those shoulders.”

He shook his head, dismissively, as he tried to ease onto his back. His abdominals gave out and turned the calculated motion into a graceless flop. Genesis sighed. “I am certain…you will manage.”

Mirk tried to smile, shrugging. “I’m glad you think so?”

“Rather…I see little other choice.”

Delicately, hoping to cheer him some, Mirk tugged his ponytail out from under him, waving the untangled bottom half of it at him. “At least I’m getting somewhere with this, _non_?”

It had been a futile act. Genesis had fallen asleep the moment Mirk had been distracted. Typical. He picked up where he left off on his hair, gently turning his head so that he could get at the back of it. The commander’s body was completely unresisting. 

When Genesis was like that, cold and lifeless in sleep, he looked so fragile. Defenseless. It made it easy to forget that he could shift from dead unconsciousness to vicious attention in the blink of an eye, that he could snap out a hand the moment he woke and kill most anything within his reach. The truth, Mirk thought, floated somewhere in between the two. He’d seen him cut down opponents effortlessly, one after another. But he’d also seen him completely lost on what to do in response to a handshake, perplexed by smiles and tears and laughs and what he’d done to elicit them.

The stronger the shielding, the less accustomed the inside was to being touched.

He was being silly. Chiding himself under his breath, Mirk got back to work.

Genesis’s body wasn’t going to fix itself. Not in any reasonable way, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the first: Niv isn't being some kind of creeper with the whole kissing business. Old Slavic folkway. Generally, kissing on the mouth didn't really acquire any kind of romantic connotation in Slavic culture until much later in history. (And there was that whole [socialist fraternal kiss thing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Socialist_fraternal_kiss) after that...)
> 
> Note the second: Speaking of history, for those who may be curious about it, this story starts during the summer of 1691. Gotta love magic to take the ick out of early modern living, right? Which would make the "summer campaign" that's being mentioned in this piece be the fighting going on in Northern Italy that was part of the War of the League of Augsburg. The more you know~
> 
> Note the third: On a related point, seeing as how we're talking about Way Back When, some characters have rather antiquated ways of thinking about things, if the argument about germ theory back in chapter two didn't sort of give that away. Mirk's your average Second Estate French person, thus, to him, anything south of France is "Moorish" and anything east of it is "Oriental." Well, kinda. There's the Germanies and the Slavic regions, but those people are just straight up barbarians. I apologize if anyone finds these terms offensive. *ducks head*


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirk and Yule have a theological debate. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
> 
> Also, thanks so much to everyone who's read this beast! I really appreciate it. ^__^

“Methinks I’m really no good at this…”

Mirk winced as the concoction in the potions pot sizzled and sparked, letting off a smell like overripe berries. Yule drew close enough to peer down into it, jumping back just in time to avoid the potion’s decision to spontaneously burst into flames. Though Mirk was dismayed by the result, he couldn’t help but laugh at the way the other healer was frantically checking himself over—prodding eyebrows to see that they were unsinged, examining the forelocks of his long, curling hair, brushing at the front of his robes and plucking, aghast, at the barely-visible pinprick burns that marred it. The potion must have splashed him after all. 

“I’m very sorry, Yule, I didn’t mean it…”

Crossly, he waved him off. “It’s not your fault; I’m the idiot for leaning over it. But you can do me one favor, I suppose.”

“Anything, of course.”

“Give me your robes.”

Puzzled, Mirk glanced down at his own set of robes. If he’d been taking care of them on his own, they would have been in awful condition. Not a day went by where he didn’t spill something all down the front of them, or trail his sleeves through blood, or sit in something unidentifiable and nasty that the aides hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up. He’d tried washing them himself once, but he honestly wasn’t very good at it. The servants had always taken care of his clothes, and never had he stained a set so badly as to require extraordinary measures. They came out of the soapy water looking very much like they had before being wrung about in it. 

However, as of late, he’d been finding a week’s worth of fresh robes stacked on his dresser whenever he got back from his shift on Monday nights, the old, ruined ones still scattered about the floor where he’d left them. They truly were fresh, almost brand new, only they’d been ironed, whereas the new robes from the Supply Corps’ office were invariably wrinkled. Mirk would have been more worried by it all if he didn’t have a good idea of where they were coming from. The horrified reaction Genesis had given upon seeing the results of his failed attempt at washing his own robes would have been almost comical, had he not abruptly backed out of the room mid-lesson, never to return that night. Mirk suspected it had something to do with his “disease motes” superstition. 

As it was only an hour into his shift, he’d managed not to spill anything on them yet—they were as immaculate as he’d found them, pressed and lightly scented and softer than a set of work clothes really had any right to be. If clean and perfect was what Yule wanted, Mirk supposed he couldn’t do much better. Shrugging, first making certain he was clear of the remains of the potion so that he wouldn’t accidentally drag the robes through it, he took his few everyday possessions out of the pockets in its sleeves and worked his way out of them, continuing to apologize as he did so. 

“Like I said, I’m very sorry. I hope this makes up for it, a little. Methinks I have to be useful for something…”

Rather than taking off his own robes to switch, Yule was simply staring at him, eyebrows arched in suspicion. 

“ _Alors_ …so…I do get yours instead, _non_?”

The other healer nodded, slowly. “Of course. You just…it’s…I mean, I didn’t realize…”

Mirk glanced down at himself, confusion growing. It wasn’t as if he was naked. True, he’d stopped bothering with a chemise, since he was being given pristine clothing at unseemly intervals, but that hadn’t stopped him from wearing braies, and unfashionably long ones at that. And he was wearing the rosary, but everyone had seen him clasp it and worry at it from time to time, at least he assumed they had. If his wounds hadn’t long-since healed, he supposed things would have been different. But all there were instead were the usual scratches and bruises one got from dealing with unruly patients day after day. “Ah…I’m sorry, I didn’t know undressing like this was strange. There are no ladies here and, well, everything considered…I really thought healers wouldn’t even care if there were. No on in the Seventh ever did.” 

“No, it’s all right. You just surprised me, that’s all. No one cares about that. But…I hadn’t thought you were _actually_ religious,” he concluded, making a vague gesture at the rosary, one that Mirk thought had something of a disgusted edge to it. Still shaking his head, Yule emptied his pockets, pulled his robes up over the top of the head, and handed them over. 

“Oh! I thought it was obvious...”

Yule snorted as he wriggled into Mirk’s set of robes. “It’s not. You’re not an asshole, for one thing.”

Mirk couldn’t help but feel a little offended, though he knew well enough how Yule could have gotten the impression that the religiously inclined weren’t very nice. He’d searched high and low for a proper church to attend in the part of the mortal city of London nearest the gates of the City of Glass, but Mirk hadn’t found anything at all suitable. There were the ubiquitous Anglican churches with their confusing array of disagreements and variations. And then there were the severe Protestant sects where their Masses consisted mostly of the priest giving a two hour homily about sin and predestination and the elect. He’d given up on those once he’d stumbled across the one where the morning sermon contained a troubling bit about how Catholics were slaves to the papal anti-Christ. He’d heard stories about how the English disliked Catholics, but he hadn’t expected them to _actually_ hate them. He’d anticipated something more along the lines of the polite, disinterested bemusement that most foreign nobles treated the religion with. Thankfully, the K’maneda was mostly areligious, as far as he could tell, except for the highborn mages (Anglicans to the last) and the easterners (Orthodox, but only on holidays and when threatened with death).

If he had a hard enough time with it, Mirk could only imagine the troubles Yule had. Aside from not favoring religion, as far as he could tell, Yule was also Irish, which for some reason meant everyone thought he was Catholic anyway. The last mage from the Third who’d insinuated he was had gotten his nose broken. Sighing, Mirk searched for a way to explain himself without making Yule upset. “There are some very…strange churches here, I’ve noticed. But that doesn’t mean we’re all like that.” 

“Well, whatever. What do I know?”

 _Not much at all_ , Mirk thought to himself, though he immediately felt guilty about it. With his best breezy, unconcerned smile, he changed the subject. “Anyway, I hope they’re not too short for you.”

“No…” Yule smoothed down the front of the robes, frowning. After Mirk had struggled into Yule’s robes—they smelled odd, like cinnamon—he found that Yule was still picking at his, sniffing at them. “Where the hell did you get these?”

“Eh?”

“They’re so… _perfect_.” He sniffed at the sleeve again. “And smell like oranges.”

“Oh, methinks Comrade Genesis has been leaving them for me. He didn’t say anything about it, but he’s so silly about things being clean, I can’t think of anyone else who’d bother.”

Yule physically cringed backward in shock. “ _Him?_ ”

“What?”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Well, it’s not you, or Danu, or Eva, or Sheila, or anyone here, really, we’re all too busy. And it can’t be K’aekniv or any of them. They don’t ever bother washing their own clothes. _Alors_ …”

“That’s the strangest thing I’ve heard in months.”

Mirk laughed. “Oh, methinks it’s just because you only see him in here. He’s really not so bad. You…it’s like a strange relative. Most people think they’re odd or mean, but since they’re family, you just find them…ah, what is it… _adorable_? That’s the same thing in English, _non_?”

Yule made a frightening, choking sound. Mirk took him by the arm, shaking him a bit. “Are you all right?”

“Adorable? _Adorable?_ You’ve been huffing fumes.”

“Ah, maybe I have the wrong word. I never remember the right ones for feelings. What is it when someone does something strange that would bother you, but it doesn’t because they’re a relation?”

“I don’t know, tolerate?”

Mirk thought hard about this, struggling to remember the feeling that went along with the word. “Oh, no, that’s what he does to me. Tolerate is too cold. This is like something you laugh and shake your head about.”

Yule, he thought, looked like he was getting a headache. “Endearing?”

“What was that one again…endearing…euh, I think that’s close enough.”

“If I had to choose a word to describe that miserable ass, endearing wouldn’t be it.”

Mirk gave a helpless shrug. “Maybe I _have_ been breathing too many of the potion fumes?”

Yule sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. “I really hope so. Otherwise we’ll have to put you in the lunatic ward.”

“Anyway, are the robes all right? Really?”

“They’ll do. I’ll get them back to you tomorrow.”

Mirk waved him off. “No, don’t bother. They’ll just get thrown out anyway.”

“Right…well, fine. Back to that potion. I think you put too much silver in it, so let’s start again from there.”

Mirk nodded, returning to studying the rack of herbs and metals and strange liquids that made up the basic potions-making kit. At least his last exploded attempt at making a flesh-fusing paste had resulted in a little fun. Certainly, there couldn’t be much more of it in store for the rest of his shift.

\- - -

He almost had it, he was certain.

Mirk had decided to work through lunch—Danu was having hers with Mordecai, and it was impossible for anyone to miss how close they were growing, so Mirk thought it best to leave them alone. (It helped that he’d heard Mordecai continually harping about “having to go without” and “never being able to drink enough to get drunk” while they’d been in France—he’d asked K’aekniv about it, and he’d explained that it was custom among the Russians for a man not to start courting a woman until he had enough money to provide a comfortable life for her.) Yule was nowhere to be found, and he still felt too uncertain about whether Sheila and hers or any of the other teams on their shift were fond enough of him for it to be appropriate to ask to join them. And the members of the First would be campaigning until the weekend, and Genesis, who knew where he went? He seemed to only appear when he felt like it and spent the rest of his time being secreted away somewhere no one else knew how to get at. Besides, Mirk thought he was on to something, something that he’d doubtlessly get scolded for, but which might help him make at least one useful potion that day.

He’d given up on reading the measurements in the potions book. Instead, he took out all of the ingredients, poured out a workable amount of the most common one, and tried combining them by feel. It took a fair amount of concentration—he’d be regretting skipping lunch by three—but if he cast out his mind and listened closely to the natural elements of the potions, he could tell how much to add by how they felt about one another. Too little, and the feelings of the elements of the potion didn’t seem to recognize each other at all. Too much, and they started crowding each other, the voices of the parts starting to grumble and mutter. Just right, and the feel of them fit together seamlessly, like he was constructing a chorus piece by piece. 

Unfortunately, before he could finish it, he ran out of powdered bloodroot.

Sighing, setting the almost-finished potion carefully aside in one of the multitude of cabinets in the workroom he’d been hidden in since his shift had started, he made his way back to the supply room.

He took his time getting there. It would have been embarrassing to be caught in front of the door, spending an awkward five minutes fumbling with the keys. Largest key for the bottom lock, the spindly long one for the topmost. He arranged them as such in his palm as he approached it, trying to recall the dismissing spells for the magical locks.

Top lock, then a twist of the hand and a flick of two fingers for the first spell, then bottom, followed by a traced five-point star for the second spell and a circle cut with a cross for the third. Smiling to himself, feeling a little proud about having remembered it, he turned the doorknob. The door didn’t move. Frowning, Mirk pulled on it and watched the side of the doorframe, where the magical locks were inscribed. 

There was a fourth one there, for some reason, one he didn’t recognize. But it was weak, made with magic that felt familiar and that was easy to push past by bracing himself and giving the door a solid yank while making a waning potency gesture. It popped open with a flurry of dark green sparks. 

The emotions hit him first—a heady mix of desire and pleasure that made him take a step back, more from the force of them than anything else. By the time he’d gotten a hold of himself, his eyes had adjusted enough to see inside the darkened room. He only saw a glimpse of things, but it was plenty: Yule pinned against the far wall of the room beside one of the shelves, another man in infantry blacks sucking at his neck and working his hands up under his robes. Yelping, he batted the door shut, thinking at the very last moment to grab the handle and ease it the rest of the way closed rather than letting it slam. 

Should he lock the door again? Probably. But he didn’t want to risk being there once the pair had finished. Reeling, he shuffled back to the workroom, trying to process what he’d seen and felt.

Now that he was less shocked, the part of it that surprised him was that the emotions hadn’t frightened him. There was a difference, he supposed, between genuine desire being shared between two willing and eager parties and desire wielded like a blade, mixed with a choking feeling of possessiveness and disgust. The first one didn’t hurt. Which he was glad for, honestly; it was an emotion he’d avoided stumbling upon thus far, but he’d been at enough dances and Court gatherings to know how human nature worked. Really, it was amazing he’d managed to avoid it for so long. He blamed it on his mind being consumed with other things, too tired and tightly shielded to feel much more than what work required him to.

As for the rest of it, he thought it a bit imprudent to be doing that sort of thing in a room used by everyone, but sex, generally, was the domain of instinct and passion instead of cold calculations. He’d felt enough floating through the subconscious minds of various noble ladies and men to know about that—even the ones who tried to actively work against what their minds were telling them couldn’t get their subconscious completely clear of the thoughts. And once the subconscious mind was freed, things tended to happen very quickly and very ardently. Trying to put it all out of mind, he slipped back into the workroom, taking the potion and the kit of ingredients out once more, sitting down on one of the tall stools gathered around the backmost table and paging through the potions book, trying to find a different one that he could make out of the nearly-assembled potion he’d already mixed.

Mirk had just found a possibility, at the very end of the book, when he heard the door to the workroom creak open. 

He waved a hand distractedly in its direction without looking up. “Ah, one moment, please…methinks…yes, it could work, maybe…”

Slow, deliberate footsteps. A cough. “Well?”

Blinking, confused, he finally looked up. Yule was leaning against the wall some distance away, his face an emotionless mask, shields so tight he could barely feel a hint of the other healer’s presence. Mirk could feel the heat rising on his cheeks. He smiled in an attempt to counteract it, though he couldn’t help but hide his face in the potions book.

“I’m so sorry, Yule, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know, honest. The shields on that room are very strong, and I’d never…I wasn’t expecting…”

A hint of skepticism crossed his face, a slight arch of the eyebrows. “What, you think the only deviants in this place are the ones who go around killing civilians?”

“I…well, it’s none of my business, really.”

“Is that code for ‘I don’t want to upset anyone, so I’ll keep my damn religion to myself’?”

Confusion morphing into dismay, Mirk set aside the book, turning it upside-down so that he wouldn’t lose his place. Though his shields were quite thick, Mirk could still catch some of Yule’s annoyance, could see it in the involuntary twitching of his mouth. “No? I really am sorry, Yule, I…but does it really matter?”

He gave an incredulous laugh. “Does it _matter_? You tell me.”

Mirk shook his head, hard. “Of course not! Why would it? You’re my friend…” He fought hard against showing any of the panic he felt at the thought of making Yule genuinely angry with him, but he knew that he’d be as transparent as air to another healer who’d grown so accustomed to his presence. 

With a heavy sigh, Yule trudged over to the workbench and sat down beside him. “All right, all right, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

He was silent for a few moments, worrying at lock of his hair, trying to work something out. “Most of you religious people aren’t really all smiles and laughs about us, you know. Hell, almost _everyone_ isn’t. Why do you think I’m K’maneda? This is where all the deviants end up, one way or another.” Yule laughed again, bitterly. “Hard to judge someone for who they take to bed when you’ve just spent all day stabbing people in the back. Or worse.”

Mirk knew well enough what he meant by “us”, at least, even if the rest of Yule’s talk wasn’t making sense to him. “Ah…honestly, it doesn’t come up, really. Not where I was, anyway.”

Yule snorted, knocking him in the shoulder. He seemed surprised by his response, as if he’d expected more of a reaction out of him than a helpless sort of shrug. “Honestly. Are you _actually_ religious, or are you just faking it?”

“Oh, _bien sûr_ , I was at the abbey for nine years. I was going to be a priest, you know.”

Yule gave him a disbelieving once-over. “You? A _priest_?”

“That’s what’s done with sons who won’t inherit,” Mirk mumbled. 

“Don’t you get any say in it?”

“Well, yes, but…it’s just what’s done. None of it’s about what you want. It’s about your family needs most from you. And every family needs someone in the Church. Otherwise everything is so much harder…anyway, that’s not important anymore.”

“If it’s not important, then why do you still bother? Messing about with all that religious hocus pocus, I mean.”

Mirk stared blankly down at the table, picking at his sleeves. He struggled not to think of his mother. His grandfather. “Everyone has their own reasons.”

Yule shot him a tired, unimpressed look. “And the reason why you don’t think I’m some kind of irredeemable sex-crazed lunatic like the rest of your people do is…?”

He tried to think of how someone smarter than him would explain it, how Father Jean would have led him through constructing the conclusion, bit by bit, after minutes of twisting questions. It was hard to do it on his own. He was certain he wasn’t going to do it right. But he had to say something. “Ah… _enfin_ …it only really matters what you think about it, non? It’s… _bien_ , I never really thought much about any of the sex parts, honestly. After Uncle Marc died, I suppose I was supposed to think about marriage, since a House can’t go on without an heir, but, really, I was hoping _maman_ would give me a brother, or Kae would have a son, and I could go back to the abbey instead of trying to be a lord. It’s…well, it’s all I was ever good for. Serving. Helping. Tending the gardens and the animals, cleaning, cooking, teaching the children, making sure the town poor are taken care of, listening to people who are hurting, looking after the sick…I’m good for serving. I’m not meant to do anything more than that. And here I am, helping the sick.” Mirk paused for a moment, gaze falling on the half-finished potion. “Or, trying, anyway. I suppose I’m not very good at that either.”

Mirk kept staring at the potion, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be pressed further on the subject. He was completely out of ways to explain, to argue, to analyze. He’d considered everything Father Jean had told him was important. That sacrifice mattered more than anything else, and that the hurting and poor were who spoke the Word, that they were the only way to understand Him. It was what had made him so frustrated about looking for another church to attend. Sects and theology and who was right and who was wrong, fighting over tiny things that had nothing to do with helping anyone didn’t matter to him. The ritual did. And Father Jean, and the other Fathers at the abbey, and the Sisters, they all did everything one way, believed in the same thing, and it seemed like the rest of the world thought differently, despite calling themselves the same sort of things he did. Was that because he had gotten everything wrong? Had he not listened close enough, had he misunderstood what Father Jean had tried to teach him?

Eventually, Yule sighed, saving him from drowning completely in his panicked, troubled thoughts. “You honestly don’t care about sex?”

He couldn’t contain his instinctual shudder at the thought of it, his mind for a moment filled with dark laugher and the sound of rain on cobbled streets and pain, pain everywhere, pain blending seamlessly into shame. “No. Methinks I’m not meant for that either.”

Mirk was relieved when, with a wistful sort of laugh, Yule put an arm around his shoulders, like he always did when waxing on about a subject he felt strongly about. “You’re either extremely lucky or extremely unfortunate. Hard to say which.”

Mirk forced a shaky smile onto his face. “Of course I’m lucky. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“The K’maneda is no place for someone who’d say something as stupid as that.”

Mirk laughed, relieved to be back on neutral ground. “I’ve heard that before, somewhere…something about being too sentimental…”

“Whatever. I suppose if you don’t care, you don’t care. Might as well leave it at that.”

“Yes, let’s.” Mirk paused, considering things for a moment. “Though, was he from the fifth, or the fourteenth? I didn’t get a very good look.”

“What?”

“Well, methinks I’d have to worry if you were involved with someone from the fourteenth. They’re very cruel, I’ve heard. I’d have to look into it.”

With a rueful shake, Yule released him. “What would you do? Throw plants at him?”

Mirk turned to him with a renewed, sunnier smile. _That_ was something he knew how to handle. “Me? I wouldn’t do anything. But K’aekniv is much bigger than him, and he does like to do me favors, since he really likes that fruit vodka Eva’s sister makes…”

Shaking his head, Yule leaned over to examine his potion. “You know, I’m starting to think you only call yourself useless all the time to hide the fact that you can do whatever you damn well please.”

He couldn’t keep himself from laughing at the notion. “It’s not nice to be suspicious, Yule. Anyway, I may understand how to do these potions now. Let me put the last bit in, and we’ll see if this one stays together or not.”

Mirk peeked at the potions book, to make sure he remembered the last ingredient right, then plucked it out of the rack of supplies—essential oil of orange. He hoped it lightened the potion some. As it was, smelling it burned his throat and made him feel faint. Casting out his senses, he added the oil, carefully, drop by drop, until the other elements recognized it and they came together, forming in his mind a perfect symphony, though he’d completely forgotten what song it was playing. “There! Now, let’s see what it is so we can test it.”

As Mirk scanned the page the potion was written on, Yule cautiously waved a hand over the potions bowl, wafting up some of its much-improved scent. Frowning, he turned his head and sniffed at his shoulder, then again at the potion.

“Ah, here it is, it’s—”

“A cleaning potion. Strips the whole top layer off whatever you put it in. That explains it.”

Mirk thought about this, setting aside the book, looking down into the faintly orange-tinted potion and sighing. “Does this mean I don’t have an excuse not to do my own laundry anymore?”

“Depends on how well the potion works, I guess.” Yule put a tentative fingertip in it then drew it out with a hiss. “Hells, that’s strong!”

Pouting, Mirk plucked an empty jar from the potions kit. “It was nice while it lasted, at least.”

“Look on the bright side. Now you won’t have some creep coming in your room without telling you.”

Mirk shrugged. “It’s not so bad. He always made the bed too. I’m terrible at getting the corners right.”

Hopping off his stool, Yule folded his arms and shook his head at him. “Only you could get that miserable bastard to do your housework for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Mirk's views on religion have nothing at all to do with the prevalent beliefs of the time period, save for the kind of "crazy fringe" ideas put forward by people like Petr Chelcicky and Co. (Actually, there were a lot of small sects like his kicking around from 1400-1600, but as the dude who taught Mirk was Bohemian, I think he's the best example.) He _was_ raised in an abbey from age 5 to 13 or so, but the guy who taught him most everything he knows about "big picture" stuff (Father Jean) was a K'maneda half-assing being a priest instead of an actual priest. As such, the theology he got taught was sort of...warped. The best thing I can compare it to is a sort of proto-[liberation theology](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberation_theology) with an unfortunate tendency to idolize martyrdom.
> 
> Sort of convoluted, I know. But it's cool. We'll just play it like Mirk does and _ignore the problematic aspects of everything until they absolutely can't be avoided any longer_. Heh.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourselves...things are about to get gay. Er.
> 
> ...okay, not really. We're entering the "oblivious denial" stage. You know. Where grown men lose all capacity to logic. Because certain people just can't into normal human interaction. *cough*Gen*cough*
> 
> Thanks for reading! ^__^

“ _Quelle horreur…_ ”

Mirk paused just outside the front doors to the infirmary, pressed tight back against them in order to keep under the roof’s overhang and out of the pouring rain. He hadn’t thought to bring his cloak with him that morning—it had been lovely outside, sunny and quite warm for the first week of September. He should have known better. The English weather seemed much more mercurial than what he was accustomed to. Or perhaps it was just his longing for home coloring his opinion. Biting his lip, checking to make sure his bag was closed, Mirk forced himself out into the rain.

It was cold. He’d have thought it was autumn, if the Earth hadn’t still been murmuring late-summer sentiments at him. Though he was too exhausted from his last patient (an infantryman who’d walked out of the transporter in a daze, bumping into Mirk and mumbling his apologies as he’d presented him with his own arm that’d been cut off at the elbow) to manage a run, he kept his pace brisk, focusing on the close-yet-distant lights of the healers’ dormitory, already thinking of bed and a warm cup of tea with a sizeable splash of brandy in it to help things along. 

Which was why he entirely missed seeing the body in the road, the body that he tripped over the legs of, his momentum sending him tumbling head over heels into a particularly deep puddle. Rubbing at the shoulder he’d landed on, Mirk sat up and peered over at the body, the spinning of his head making it difficult for him to tell if that was exactly what it was, or if he was simply imagining things.

It really was a body. A large, spindly body all in black, its face mostly obscured by a drenched snarl of black hair. He didn’t need to see the face. The long white fingers twitching at the body’s sides were enough for him to tell who it was.

“ _Messire!_ ”

Mirk scrabbled over to his side, hardly knowing where to start. Digging his fingers into his arm to get a decent grip on him, he rolled him over onto his back. It was hard to tell for certain in the dark, but it didn’t look like he was wounded. His limbs all were at their proper angles, though his head flopped lifelessly to one side rather than staying forward. Casting out his senses, he felt hard for any sparks of pain that might escape his magic as he carefully took his face in both hands and turned it upright, leaning over him.

“Oh dear…what’s happened to you now…Genesis? Genesis, can you hear me? Are you awake? Blink if you’re awake.”

There was no response. He leaned closer, just in time to hear him draw a rattling, hissing breath. His eyes were open, but they were filmed over black, making it impossible to tell whether they were responsive or not. There were rapidly spreading bruises on his face; his nose seemed off center, perhaps broken. Mirk did his best to clamp down on his growing panic—if Genesis was sick enough to literally fall flat on his face, things couldn’t be good, wounds or not. In an attempt to reassure himself, he mumbled the Ave Maria under his breath as he checked his pulse.

Faint, but there, despite him being even more deathly cold than usual. So he wasn’t as ill as he looked, though that didn’t exactly put his mind at ease. If he wasn’t bloodied and broken, how could he have fallen in a dead heap in the middle of the street? “ _Messire_? Genesis, please, talk to me. I can’t read you; you have to tell me what happened.”

His mouth twitched, but no sound escaped. Mirk glanced back at the infirmary, debating whether it’d be better to take him there or to try somewhere else. Before he’d left, he’d put the man with the severed forearm in the last empty recovery bed. There were always the overflow beds in the long-term ward that he could put him in, if necessary. However, he doubted Genesis would be pleased to wake up and find himself surrounded by lunatics and the nearly dead. 

Genesis’s occasional twitching had turned into something more like purposeful movement, one arm slapping at the cobbles as if he was trying to use it to help sit up. Mirk knew he’d be the one to tend to the commander anyway, no matter where he took him. Better to take him somewhere comfortable. Best to get him in out of the rain before he could get any worse. The dormitory was closer. He took hold of his shoulders, pulling him upright.

“All right, _messire_ , let’s go inside. Can you stand up? Genesis? Methinks I can’t carry you…”

Mirk had to shoulder most of the commander’s weight in order to haul Genesis up onto his feet. It would be easier to move him, Mirk thought, if he wasn’t so much taller than he was. The heaviness wasn’t making things difficult as much as the clumsiness of his outsized proportions was. It was a trick to both keep him from falling over and snatch up his bag full of supplies. As he started off in the direction of the dormitory, he noticed Genesis was beginning to come back to himself, stumbling along beside him instead of being dragged, blinking owlishly, first giving the ground a puzzled look, then glancing in his direction.

“Genesis? What happened to you? Why aren’t you inside?”

If he understood what he’d said to him, he made no indication of it, though his blank stare turned into a squint. After a moment, his expression shifted into one Mirk didn’t recognize, something between apprehension and one of his strange, defensive grins. Some sort of extreme confusion? He didn’t think he’d ever seen the commander that addled. 

“It’s me, Genesis. Mirk. Do you remember?”

“Mirk…” It came out in a hoarse croak, but any speech was better than dumbfounded silence.

“Yes, it’s me. What are you doing out in the rain? You know you’ll get sick if you stay outside in this weather. Well. That’s not important. You really should talk to someone if you need help instead of going off on your own, though.”

Mirk was well aware of the fact that he was babbling. Not that it mattered. When Genesis tried to speak again, all that came out was hissing and clicking, the unintelligible private language he usually only used when he was annoyed.

“It’s all right. Everything is going to be all right. Just a little further…”

It took him a few tries to open the door without either dropping Genesis or hitting him with it. Mirk budged him inside, relieved to be able to take his weight off his shoulders, propping him against the far wall of the entryway. After waiting a few seconds to make sure Genesis wouldn’t collapse when left on his own, Mirk turned to the panel on the wall that operated the magical dryer built into the ceiling. He was sure he knew the right combination of runes to jab at, but it didn’t respond. He tried banging it into life. Nothing. Apprehensively, apologetically crossing himself first, he cursed at it. It seemed to be what everyone else in the K’maneda did to make things work. The dryer sparked a bit, but didn’t turn on. Dismissing it with a frustrated wave of his hands, Mirk turned back to Genesis.

His eyes had gone back to normal. Mirk wished they hadn’t. It was easier now for him to tell that he couldn’t focus them. Standing on the balls of his feet, he reached up and felt his forehead. Feverish. Feverish enough to cause such delirium? He couldn’t be certain. Genesis’s temperature had next to nothing in common with the average temperature of a run-of-the-mill human. Sighing, he put an arm around him and began the arduous process of getting him upstairs. Every flight was a struggle; Genesis tripped again and again, and he wasn’t strong enough to keep him from falling, barely able to hold him tightly enough to keep him from tumbling down them. Trying to talk to him didn’t seem to be helping him focus, though he did respond, sometimes. But never in a language he knew.

Up one last flight. Down the hall, Genesis weaving this way and that and pulling him along with. The door was locked; Mirk propped him against the wall again until he fumbled it open and was able to slap on the lights. Heaving a sigh of relief, he guided him inside.

Genesis’s boot caught on the slight step up through the doorway. Mirk lost his hold on him and he fell again, lifelessly, not even throwing out his hands to soften the blow. Wincing, Mirk nudged his feet in past the doorjamb and sidled into the room, pulling the door shut. He thought for a moment about the bottle of brandy in the topmost drawer of his dresser, but quickly dismissed the idea, dropping his bag and setting in to work. 

He tried to do as he’d been told—distance oneself from the patient, focus on the body, concentrate on parts rather than the whole. Mirk could never manage it. Especially not with him, when keeping track of the entire workings of his system was integral to being able to heal him at all. At least he was accustomed to seeing him like that, unconscious, all but dead. Mirk turned him over and checked his face again. No new broken bones, although the bruising was worse. Still burning up. First things first, then. He had to get him out of the soaked-through clothes and into something at least a little bit warm. 

That was another thing he was accustomed to—laboriously pulling off piece after piece of his many layers of clothing that he wore like armor against being accidentally touched. None of the other healers would do it. They were too afraid of his magic throwing them out the nearest window if they touched the wrong place on him. The boots were tricky when they were wet; the intricate series of knots Genesis used were next to impossible to untie. Mirk had to eventually use a bit of magic on them to get them loose, calling to the fibers, pulling them straight. Then there was getting rid of the sword. Mirk prodded around a bit over his shoulder, projecting order magic. The sheath and weapon appeared with a hiss of angry black sparks. He tugged it off of him—really, it was horribly awkward trying to get a lifeless body to move its arms the right way, like playing with a life-size doll that had been made by a mad craftsman—then managed to pry him out of the coat. It never liked letting him go. Mirk often wondered whether it was more a sentient being in its own right than a garment. 

The knives were hard to take off. The damp made the leather straps of their sheaths stiff, the cold that had settled in his own hands made the buckles hard to navigate. He tossed each of the pieces of weaponry distractedly off to one side. Most likely there was something special he was to do to them. But Genesis’s annoyance had become something of a constant to him; it ceased to bother him the same way that Comrade Emir or Eva’s disapproval would. It didn’t seem malicious. It was just Genesis being Genesis, warding off help and concern via any possible means. Mirk shook his head a bit, refocusing himself on the task at hand. The buckles of the sheaths were followed by the seemingly infinite buttons that peppered his clothes, by more clumsy fumbling with unresponsive limbs. Genesis had started to shiver, violently.

“Oh dear…hmm, let’s see what I have…I’m afraid I don’t have much that might fit you, but, well, methinks you’d like _something_...”

Mirk teetered to his feet, digging through his dresser in search of something to put him in. There were robes, but the whole lot of them were splattered with blood and grime—he’d been putting off laundry for a long time, now that he didn’t have as good of an excuse to make Genesis do it for him. The only thing robe-like that was clean was the flimsy nightshirt he slept in during the winter, and that was hardly going to be long enough for someone over a foot and a half taller than he was. Distractedly, he pried off his own sopping wet clothes and pulled the nightshirt on, even as he continued down the dresser, drawer by drawer. 

Court clothes, tailored and fine. Impossible. Chemises. One of those would help, at least a little. Braies, though he was certain they’d be uselessly short on someone with such long legs. But what else was there? Muttering under his breath at his own uselessness, Mirk went about dressing him. Everything was big enough around, sometimes too big, in places, but far too short and too narrow in the shoulders. It was easy to forget exactly how thin Genesis was until one tried to get him to wear normal clothes. Glancing him over, Mirk circled around to his head, examining the hopeless tangle that had once been his hair with a bit of trepidation. Why did he even bother with keeping his hair that long? He never even let it down. The sensible thing, Mirk thought, would have been to keep it closer to shoulder-length, like he did. There was probably some strange rule about it, some custom of Genesis’s that no one had ever heard of and that no one would have cared about if he’d broken it. But Genesis was stubborn, stubborn and hopelessly chained to his habits, without which he tended to get twitchy and violent. Mirk sighed.

“Oh, I’m too tired for all of this…I’m sorry, _messire_ , I’m just no good at this…there’s so much of it…” 

He could try to get some of the water out of it, at least. For want of a towel, he used a discarded set of robes to squeeze the damp out of his hair. Genesis would have pitched a fit over that, but he couldn’t complain about what he didn’t know about, could he? Mirk fished around blindly at the top of his desk until he came up with a brush. He made a half-hearted attempt at working out the knots at the ends of his hair. Every way he tried it, it seemed he just made it worse. Defeated, he settled for prying the tie out of the tangles and putting it in a new ponytail, just for the sake of pulling his hair out of his face. Climbing up off his knees, which cracked in protest, he began the complicated task of getting him into bed. 

He tried lifting him by the shoulders first. Though he could get the top half of him off the ground, he had no luck in lifting him high enough to sit him on the bed. Aside from being too heavy, Mirk wasn’t tall enough. Setting him down gently, he went around and tried it from the other end. Mirk pushed him closer to the bed and dragged his legs up onto it, one by one. As he stepped back to look at his work, his stomach sank. The odds of him being able to lift him up that way weren’t looking very good either.

“I’m so sorry, Genesis…this really isn’t very good, is it? I just wish I could do something, but wishes aren’t good for much, at least, that’s what you always say.”

Taking a moment to gather the dregs of his strength, he grabbed him under the arms again and tried his best to pick him up. He got further that time, but not far enough, barely holding him up, shaking with the effort and with nowhere to go.

It happened so quickly it startled him into dropping him—Genesis gave a rattle of a cough, swinging his legs off the bed. Hissing to himself, the commander tried to get to his feet.

“Oh, no, _messire_ , you shouldn’t do that! Here, stop, let me help, you can’t fall over…oh dear…”

He had fallen over again. Thankfully, he fell backwards, landing mostly on the bed. After first checking to see if he was still awake—he wasn’t—he lifted the rest of him up onto the bed, working him this way and that until he was straight. He was a good two feet longer than the bed was. It was a bit cramped for him, and he was the normal-sized kind of half-breed, not the giant type. Though he hated even thinking about its presence, lurking in the far corner of his room, Mirk dragged the trunk that was buried in old quilts over to the end of the bed, propping the rest of his legs up on it, tucking a few spare pillows under them for added comfort. For once, he was glad for his heaps of quilts, despite how they took up half his room. He piled them on top of the commander, tucking him in securely, though he left the side closest to the edge of the bed a bit loose so that he had easy access to his arm. 

All the activity had warmed him up some, for which Mirk was grateful. Now when he returned to the task of healing Genesis’s face, he could at least be assured that he wouldn’t be prodding him all over with icy fingers. Not that Genesis was in a position to complain, but he still hated to inflict more cold on him, all things considered. 

“All right, let’s see…hmm, yes, you’ve gone and broken your nose. Poor _messire_ , what made you do this? Was it an accident? Did you just forget yourself again? I suppose you’d rather I not know. Keeping secrets isn’t good for you, you know. Telling someone makes problems easier to solve.” 

He was babbling again, like he always did when he didn’t know what to do with himself. He forced himself silent and cast out his senses once more—for once, Genesis’s magic was weak enough to leave him alone, aside from the shadows under the bed prodding half-heartedly at his ankles. He healed his nose carefully, concentrating hard to keep it in line. Genesis would never forgive him if he healed it crooked. The rest of his face was mostly only bruised, save for the bones at the sides of his head, between eye and jaw. Healing these was easier. Then all that was left was massaging the bruises away, pressing blood back to where it belonged, coaxing the tiny tears inside his capillaries closed until no more could escape. It made him feel a bit more like himself. There was a certain methodical simplicity to healing, a certain calming feeling of reassurance, as piece by piece the body came back together and pain faded away. 

“All fixed. It’s a wonder it wasn’t worse. People break their jaws and knock out teeth falling like that.” He paused, studying his healed face. “I suppose you really aren’t most people.” He felt his temperature again, checked his pulse. The fever was still there, but his pulse was starting to resume its unnaturally slow, but nevertheless normal rhythm. His breathing was even, no longer rattling in his chest. 

“Methinks it might be best to leave well enough alone, _messire_. The sicker you are, the less the potions work. It might be good to go find one of the fever potions for when you wake up—”

He had turned to walk away, to head down the hall and knock on doors until he found someone who had a potion to spare, but an icy cold, shaking hand had taken hold of his wrist, whiplash fast, and stopped him. Confused, he glanced back at Genesis. He’d thought he’d been completely unconscious. Instead, he found him staring at the ceiling, his hold on him unrelenting, searching for words.

“Cold… _s’kkrasn_ …no…come. Come back.”

As quickly as he’d returned to himself, he was mostly gone again, eyes closing as his hand went limp. Still, every so often, his face would twitch, as if he was trying to force himself awake. Mirk found himself puzzled. Genesis _hated_ having people close to him. Was he simply too sick to care? Or too delirious to realize what he was asking for? He vacillated between the bed and the chair tucked under his desk, trying to decide what exactly the commander had meant when he’d asked for him to come back. Genesis’s shivering had grown so severe that it was banging the bedframe against the wall. He only knew of one way to warm up a person in that condition without a lot of magic, and he had a feeling it wasn’t something Genesis would like. But which was worse—leaving him to toss and turn, or getting in bed alongside him and trying to be of some use, some comfort?

“Well, it can’t hurt…not too much…” 

After nudging off the magelights, he returned to the bed, doing his best to climb over him onto the other side of it without putting any weight on him. Gingerly, he untucked the mound of quilts and slid under them. Whatever trepidation he felt was soon overwhelmed by concern. Genesis’s arm was terribly, icy cold. He supposed it only made sense—no matter how many quilts you put on top of someone, if they couldn’t generate enough body heat to warm their own appendages, even with a fever, they wouldn’t get any warmer. Mirk pressed himself up close to his side, taking hold of one of his chilly hands, trying to rub some life back into it.

It didn’t help much, though he’d suspected that’d be the case. Making sure to keep his hand tucked between them in the hopes that it might eventually warm up, he shifted over closer to him, working his arms around him. He half expected Genesis to snap out of his delirium and pry himself out of his grasp, but instead, much to his surprise, the commander seemed to relax some, his shivering slowly beginning to subside.

Mirk would never have thought it possible that Genesis would go so far as to let someone so close to him without having to be forced and threatened into it, no matter how sick he was. He couldn’t help but wonder exactly how disgruntled he was bound to be once he woke up and found himself in such a position. Sighing, he let his head rest on his shoulder, deciding it’d be best not to worry about it, not yet.

It was too pleasant of a moment to ruin with worrying. True, it came at great expense, at least on Genesis’s part. But maybe it would do him some good to allow someone in. He suspected that Genesis didn’t hate human contact as much as he was just entirely unaccustomed to it. People were never quite comfortable with things that were foreign to them. He, on the other hand, felt a wave of relief at the closeness. He’d been frazzled, achy and miserable by the end of his shift. Despite the shock of finding the commander half-dead in the road, he was now exhausted, but emotionally much better—Genesis wasn’t exactly a warm bedmate, nor a particularly soft one, but his presence comforted him, somehow. Though the healers were friendly, for the most part, and none of them hesitated to comfort him if the blockers and alcohol weren’t helping with the pain, he hadn’t been able to be so close to someone since he’d been driven from home. He didn’t feel sure enough. Liked enough. Safe enough.

But he always felt safe with him.

Mirk tried not to let it show, lest it make the commander even more withdrawn than he already was, but he truly was glad that he hadn’t just dropped him in with the healers and forgotten about him. He would have missed him. Everyone told him he was either an idiot or insane for feeling that way; perhaps he was. But Genesis had been a constant through the past few hellish years, a lingering presence that waxed and waned, but that always reappeared, always the same—distant, inscrutable, but there to offer his assistance nevertheless. Mirk wondered, sometimes, if he seemed so harsh not out of actual malice or loathing, but simply because he had no idea how people showed one another that they cared. True, he had K’aekniv and the other Russians, but their way of showing they cared was almost as odd and convoluted to Mirk as he imagined Genesis’s to be. 

Maybe he was being foolish. Maybe he was seeing things that weren’t there. Maybe Genesis would never consider him a proper friend, not like how Mirk thought about him. But at least he could honestly say that he had given Genesis the best chance he could, which was something that, in his opinion, everyone deserved. Destroyer or not.

Assured that he was at least doing the favor of keeping him warm, even if he wouldn’t have liked his methods, Mirk closed his eyes and let himself be lulled to sleep by the slow, even sound of Genesis’s breathing.

\- - -

Mirk was certain he was dreaming.

His dreams could be vivid like that, so real they left physical marks on him. Usually it only happened in spring, when his magic was strong and hard to contain. But it was almost autumn, and nothing was growing, the life was fading instead of rising. It wasn’t particularly warm anymore, even…

…wasn’t particularly warm, but not exactly cold, either…

It really wasn’t warm, strictly on grounds of temperature. But the _feeling_ was warm, that lovely degree of closeness where he couldn’t be exactly sure where he stopped and the other began. There wasn’t any pain. So he had to be dreaming—he’d been unable to be that close to anyone ever since _that_ had happened. His mind was just too fragile, his confidence too shaky. It took years for an empath’s mind to fully overcome the kindling sickness, the healers had said, the horrible, bright white agony caused by too much negative emotion at once, a maelstrom of pain and terror and shame that fed upon itself until there was nothing left. And _maman_ was dead. There was no one left he could be that close to without the panic lancing through him, the fear that someone would see all the dark things that lived in the back of his mind. He was afraid looking at them too hard would bring them to life. He was afraid that if anyone else saw them, they wouldn’t want to touch him anymore. 

He had to be asleep. He had to be dreaming. 

Dream or not, it was still wonderful. Like floating in a saltwater sea warmed by the sun, weightless and formless, every part of him gone except for the one that was bathed in sublime contentment. No past. No future. Nothing but an omnipresent _now_ , thick and golden and never-ending.

He’d jinxed it. With a start, Mirk came awake. 

Not yet willing to open his eyes, he settled for stretching his limbs instead, hoping to ease himself out of the dream slowly rather than shaking it all off without being able to savor any of its afterglow. Mirk held the stretch for five seconds, ten, enjoying the feel of muscles that were strong and steady instead of tired and bruised. Sighing, he let it go, allowing his arm and leg to fall back to where they’d been before.

Which was on top of someone. That had been part of the dream, he’d thought. That was supposed to have gone away. Puzzled, he blinked his eyes open.

His forehead was pressed up close against a long neck, its skin cool and translucent white. Underneath his arm and leg, he could feel hard muscle and the faint press of the bones beneath it. His hand was resting on a hem, half of it on well-worn linen and frayed lace and the other half on more smooth, cold skin. There was an arm curled around him.

“…Mirk.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, he shoved himself up onto one elbow, trying to shake away his grogginess. The voice was familiar. The tone really didn’t fit the situation. It was flat, unemotional. Mirk mumbled out what few words his mind could grab hold of. “Oh…you’re awake, Gen.”

That did the trick. In an instant, the haze of sleep was gone, leaving him with nothing but the sudden realization that he’d been clinging to Genesis’s side in his sleep. That was probably why he didn’t sound amused. Aside from the fact that he’d just called him by the one name he may have hated more than his unbreakable habit of addressing him by the title _messire_. Mirk cringed in anticipation of a scolding.

“To…be honest…I would much prefer it if you used that instead of the other one. If you are determined…not to use my proper name.”

Mirk shook his head slightly, just to be sure he wasn’t imagining things. Rather than being annoyed, it seemed like Genesis was resigned to the position he was in. The nerve in his forehead wasn’t even twitching. He must have been feeling sensible for once. It wasn’t as if Mirk could exactly _avoid_ clinging to him, since the bed was small even when only one person was in it. And he was only in it because he favored the commander being cross with him over him freezing to death. That aside, he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t managed some kind of empathic transference with him just then, despite his protective mental shroud of chaos magic. How else would he have known what he was afraid of? Though, Genesis did sometimes make uncannily lucky guesses. Giving up on trying to make sense of it, Mirk shrugged. “Oh. All right, then. You surprised me. I expected to be awake before you, considering.”

“How long has it been?”

Mirk strained to see the clock on top of his desk without rising out of his slouch any more than he had to. He did a quick bit of mental math after sorting out what time he must have left the infirmary at. “Seven hours, more or less.”

Genesis shifted as if to get up and, instinctively, Mirk tightened the arm he still had across his chest. The commander stopped. He really did have to be weak for that to be enough to restrain him. “No, not yet. Let’s see…” Reluctantly lifting his arm, since it seemed he wasn’t going anywhere for the time being, he pressed the back of his hand to Genesis’s forehead, then to his cheek. He was the same temperature as his hand. “Ah. You’re not going anywhere, _messire_. Your fever hasn’t gone down a bit.” 

Mirk thought about getting up, but only for a moment. There was no sense in levering himself out of bed if Genesis wasn’t upset by his presence, was there? He had to have been too cold to care. It made him feel a little less like he’d done something odd, sliding in next to him instead of making a bed for himself on the floor. Mirk lowered himself back onto his side, head inevitably coming to rest on Genesis’s shoulder again. There wasn’t much room for it to go anywhere else. He drew the quilts up until they were tucked under Genesis’s chin. It left his head completely buried, but he didn’t particularly mind. Despite having been drenched to the bone, the commander still somehow smelled of the soap he religiously scrubbed himself with an unhealthy number of times a day. Fresh lilies. Before they got strong and sickly sweet. Mirk paused for a time to collect his thoughts, wondering where exactly it was best to begin. “What were you doing out in the rain like that? Lying in the street? You weren’t hurt, I checked. But you weren’t very well either.”

After a long pause and a heavy sigh, Genesis replied. “I was…very tired.”

“Tired? I know you don’t like to sleep, but methinks even you wouldn’t let it get that bad. How long were you awake?”

“Seven days.”

Mirk grimaced, clucking in disapproval. Just the thought of being awake for that long made him feel ill. “Why?”

“K’aekniv…has found…a woman.”

“Oh?”

“Thus…I have been evicted. So to speak.”

That, Mirk was willing to admit, was a good enough reason to stay out of one’s proper bed. He’d always wondered how they’d managed that over all the years that Genesis and K’aekniv had been sharing a room. He’d assumed it involved an expensive inn and a lot of illegible notes and bribe money. Genesis always seemed horrified by the thought of how humanoids reproduced. “Oh.”

“He seems rather fixed on this one.”

“So he…just threw you out? For a week?” K’aekniv could be single-minded, especially when he got his heart set on someone, but it wasn’t like him to be so cold to Genesis.

“He did…and he didn’t. He said to give him a week. But I am…through. I can’t waste time like this every year. I had been hoping to obtain alternate quarters before…this all happened again. However, as you must be aware, housing among the K’maneda is rather…tight.”

Mirk sighed. “And so, instead of asking for help, you just wandered around until you nearly drowned yourself in the street.”

Though he couldn’t see it, Mirk could practically hear the frown that had to be on his face. “I had…not intended for things to go so far.”

Mirk drummed his fingers thoughtfully against Genesis’s ribcage. A small part of his mind noted, with pleased surprise, that even this wasn’t enough to annoy the commander into shaking him off. He had to be more troubled by everything than he let on. Could he be that upset over K’aekniv brushing him off so lightly? It didn’t seem likely, but Mirk thought it’d be best to investigate a little. “Methinks I’ll go and have a word with Niv. But you’re staying here. If that fever turns into a cold, we’ll all be miserable for a while, _messire_.”

Genesis’s response was uncharacteristically delayed. “I will…find other quarters.”

“Where? In the infirmary?”

Mirk felt Genesis shudder. “Elsewhere.”

Reluctantly, Mirk pushed back the covers and sat up again. If he needed to, Mirk supposed, he could ask around until he found a place for Genesis to stay until things were sorted out. But why bother? To all external appearances, he looked content enough bundled in his quilts. Not that external appearances were always helpful with him, but Mirk thought his attempts at running off that time had been particularly half-hearted. He was still trying to give him that deadpan look of his, the one that was supposed to mean dislike, boredom. Mirk found it much less intimidating than his scowls. In general, it was hard to be intimidating when one was mummified in a quilt with blue hearts on it. “No, it would be better if you stayed here and rested for now. Anyway, if you tried to go about at your normal speed right now, you’d just end up passing out again. Even you can’t recover from a fever and a week without sleep in seven hours.”

Sure enough, Genesis only gave a tired sigh instead of trying to get up again. “I see…there is no talking sense into you.” 

Mirk couldn’t resist needling him a bit more, prodding him in the side. “I could say the same to you.”

Before Genesis had time to protest, Mirk forced himself out from under the blankets. There really wasn’t a good way to get out of the bed, but he tried his best to ease his way over Genesis’s body without having to lay on him. He managed it, but just barely. It didn’t help that a large part of his mind was whining at him to go back to bed instead of trying to tend to Genesis’s concerns for him. As he went about tucking Genesis back in, he tried to force the thought from his head. 

He was letting that dream continue to addle his brains instead of thinking rationally. It _had_ been pleasant—he wasn’t going to be silly and try to deny that. But it was just that: a pleasant dream and nothing more. Genesis didn’t like people touching him even to heal him. He put up with people like K’aekniv inflicting physical contact on him, though the whole time he was enduring it, Genesis looked like he was about to have a fit. And most of the time he had to go run off and wash his hands afterwards, for some unfathomable reason. Genesis engaging in the kind of closeness that he’d felt in the dream, the full mind and body embrace that left absolutely no space between two people, wasn’t even technically possible. His chaos kept Mirk from feeling any of his thoughts and emotions. 

Mirk gathered up the things he needed—the robes he’d been wearing yesterday, now dry, his bag, Genesis’s discarded clothes. What was he going to do with them, even? Genesis would refuse to wear them again. No one else was his shape. Perhaps he could donate them to the Supply Corps for rags? He shuffled into his shoes as he went to the door, looking back at Genesis. The commander hadn’t moved. Once again, Mirk felt that odd yearning in the pit of his stomach, begging him to go back. It had been warm in bed. Comfortable. Safe. 

Shaking his head, he reached for the door handle. The walk to the infirmary would clear his head, if nothing else. And there was K’aekniv to talk to, before he got sent off to parts unknown to hack at other mercenaries. “I’ll be back in a while,” Mirk said over his shoulder. “You should get some more rest, methinks.”

“Do I…have a choice in the matter?”

Mirk found himself grinning as he turned the handle. He didn’t know why.

“You always have a choice, _messire_. But sometimes it’s easier when you just listen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you thought you might escape a chapter without a random historical aside! Ha!
> 
> For those of you in the audience saying, dude, this is pretty homo for something that doesn't get actually homo for a (looooong) while, a cultural aside: owing to the deep division between men's spheres/roles and women's spheres/roles back in the 1700s, dudes were a lot more touchy-feely with each other. The sort of friendship a man had with another man was conceived as some sort of noble, honorable thing that was stronger than the relationship a man could have with a woman. You read some of the letters these guys wrote to each other back then and it totally sounds like they were getting it on. (I mean, come on, think of those chapters at the beginning of Moby Dick where Ishmael and Queequeg cuddle in bed all day talking about their life stories.) But they weren't. They were just living in the age of the Epic Bromance that happened to die out around 1850 or so, which just happened to be replaced by the age of Don't Touch Me, Dude, That's Gay, which has persisted into the modern era.
> 
> Of course, Gen perpetually lives in the era of Don't Touch Me, Dude, I'll Shiv You. Which is a whole other can of cultural worms.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirk is either incredibly naive, incredibly dense, or very, very good at ignoring things he doesn't want to deal with. Gen just might be a bit tsundere. Or was poorly socialized as a youth. Probably both. Moe stereotypes, ahoy! 
> 
> Again, thanks to everyone who's been reading! I'm honestly amazed that anyone's still keeping up with this. There'll be a return to actual plot next section too, even, so keep persevering. Not that there's anything wrong with a bit of fluff, now and then...

Mirk hadn’t meant to spend the whole afternoon and part of the evening in the infirmary. He’d come in just to snatch a fever potion from the supply closet and put a few extra ingredients in it to make it more amenable to his difficult patient’s system, but then he’d stopped on his way out to check on the infantryman whose arm he’d healed the night before. Apparently no one had looked in on him all day, except for the aide with the meal cart. When Mirk found him, he was wrestling with his hand, cursing it and trying to make it move, in the process giving himself a collection of nasty bruises. 

So, of course, he had to stop and heal him, stop and patiently run through the exercises with him that would eventually have his hand back to normal. And just when he’d finished, Sheila had bolted into the recovery ward and bellowed at him to come help with a head injury, and after that was the poor pregnant woman who was having a hard time of things, and after that a child with an arm his fellow trainees had broken for him, and after that…

It wasn’t until the barely organized chaos of shift change that he managed to disentangle himself. Considering all the extra stress he’d put himself through on his day off, he thought himself entitled to a drink before going back to his room and facing Genesis. The commander had been uncharacteristically even-tempered that morning. Mirk wondered if that meant that when he got back he’d be in one of his intractable, black moods. Or if he’d even be there at all. He’d told Genesis to stay in bed and rest, but Genesis tended to listen to no one but Genesis. He went to the liquor cabinet in the common room, rummaging through it for a bottle that hadn’t been put back with only a mouthful left in it. 

“Hells, boy, haven’t you ever heard of taking a break?”

Mirk wheeled about, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the shelf he’d been pawing around underneath. Yule was leaning back in a chair in the far corner of the common room, feet up on the table, a sizeable glass of something doubtlessly potent cradled against his chest. It didn’t look as if it was doing much to make him feel better.

“Oh! Oh, I’m not on today, I just stopped in to get something.”

Yule gave him a skeptical look as he pulled out the chair beside his own. “You’re a terrible liar. Come on, they haven’t restocked that damn thing in weeks. I suppose I can share. Maybe. If you tell me why you’re really here.”

The truth was a paltry price to pay in exchange for a decent drink. Mirk trudged over to him, plunking down in the offered chair and casting his bag off onto the table. He took the half-empty bottle Yule extracted from the depths of his robes and nudged in his direction, drinking first and glancing at the label second. Whiskey. The other healer was inordinately fond of it, something about it being the only good thing that had ever come out of the place where he’d been born. “I really did just stop in to get something. I just got a little distracted.”

“Distracted?”

“Methinks if someone asks for help, it’s not nice to refuse.”

Yule snorted. “I’m not working unless I’m getting paid for it.”

Mirk shrugged. Honestly, he didn’t know what to do with the pay that was distributed to them every week or so. He didn’t have much need for it, all things considered. Giving it away appealed to him, considering how much misery he saw other K’maneda endure for the sake of money, but he had a feeling that doing so might draw undue attention to him. He hated to make himself even more of a burden to the people who’d dedicated themselves to the thankless task of keeping him out of harm’s way. “Besides, I needed to be out for a while.”

“Go on,” Yule said, waving an impatient hand in his direction.

“Comrade Genesis is sick again. He’s so stubborn about resting. I thought he might actually stay put if I left him alone instead of bothering him.”

“Oh. Him.” Yule paused, taking a bracing drink. “I haven’t seen him around.”

“I let him have my room. K’aekniv…well, it’s complicated, but anyway, he doesn’t have anywhere else to stay right now. And you know how he doesn’t like it here.”

“Jesus Christ,” Yule groaned, rubbing hard at his forehead. “So, what, that bastard gets your room and you get to sleep on some cot over in the long-term ward?”

Mirk laughed. “Don’t be silly. I’ll find somewhere else to go. Or, well, he let me stay last night, but methinks that might have just been because he was sick and confused. I wouldn’t have left him anyway. The poor man was cold as death.”

Yule choked on his drink, making a terrified face.

Concerned, Mirk reached over and helped steady him before he knocked his chair over. “Are you all right?”

“Poor? _Poor?_ You’re delusional.”

Mirk shook his head. “He really was very sick. Actually, he probably still is. I should be getting back…”

Yule dropped his feet off the table, finishing the last of his drink. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think the bastard likes you.”

Mirk reflexively reached for the bottle again, delaying himself further as he thought about Yule’s conjecture. He’d always assumed that the commander only tolerated him out of some misplaced sense of duty, or out of habit. But, really, how could he be sure of that? He couldn’t read him empathically. He knew for a fact that Genesis and K’aekniv were good friends and most of the time Genesis treated the half-angel like he was some sort of odious child he wished he could get rid of. Likewise, K’aekniv tended to act like Genesis was an overbearing mother who he was constantly trying to subvert, but when trouble came, the two of them came together instantly. And even though Genesis beat on him every time K’aekniv got it into his head to be friendly, he didn’t _really_ want to hurt him—he’d seen what Genesis was like when he wanted to hurt someone. Generally, they didn’t have much longer to live. Mirk got the impression Genesis was objecting more to K’aekniv’s bizarre way of showing affection rather than the fact that the Russian cared about him at all. 

But like _him_? Him, a mostly useless mage who had nothing to offer but trouble and healing Genesis would barely tolerate unless he was already unconscious? At least K’aekniv was good in a fight. At least K’aekniv could help him. All he could do was trail after him like some sort of lost kitten and try to collect all the pieces once everything came crashing down. 

Laughing weakly, he handed the bottle back to Yule. “That’s a bit much, Yule. He is very sick, after all. It’s hard to be yourself when you can’t even get out of bed.”

“You’re right. Must be the whiskey. Forget I said anything.”

Mirk had a feeling that wouldn’t be a problem. At least not once Genesis was back to his usual, standoffish self.

\- - -

Mirk stared at the key in the lock intently, biting the inside of his cheek. It rattled a bit, but didn’t turn. Brass. He hadn’t quite gotten the hang of convincing alloys to listen to him yet.

“ _Allez, allez…_ ”

He was almost to the point of giving up, of dropping the heavy pile of books he was balancing against his hip and turning the key manually, when the discordant buzzing in his head, the competing voices of copper and zinc, finally agreed on a common pitch. The key snicked, the handle turning along with it as the door popped open. Relieved, he rushed in, elbowing at the wall blindly until he hit the rune that triggered the room’s magelights. 

It surprised him so much that he tripped himself up on a pile of robes that he should have easily avoided: Genesis was exactly where he’d left him, mummified in quilts on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, expression dead blank. True, he’d gone through the trouble of finding something in the canteen he would eat and had managed to unearth a few books from the library that might keep him entertained and in bed for a day or two, but, in his heart of hearts, Mirk hadn’t expected the commander to actually be there when he returned. He turned his stumble into a lunge for his desk, sliding the tray onto it before his forward momentum could send it flying.

Genesis didn’t acknowledge this. Asleep with his eyes open again? He dropped his bag and plunked the stack of spellbooks on his dresser, wondering if the noise would draw his attention. Still, nothing. Mirk sighed, gesturing the door shut before attempting conversation. Oak, that he could always make listen. Trees were less stubborn.

“Well? Are you feeling any better, _messire_?”

It wasn’t immediate, but Genesis did reply, though he didn’t move otherwise. “I was…fine enough when you left.”

He couldn’t help but laugh—that sort of comment was normal, even though his compliance wasn’t. Pulling out the chair from his desk, he dragged it over to the bedside and sat down, reaching back and picking up the tray of fruit he’d brought in with him after a moment of indecision. If he actually ate something without complaint, he’d really have grounds to worry about whether the fever hadn’t done something permanent to his mental faculties. “Ah, well, your mood is back to normal, at least. Can you sit up?”

Though the commander’s face remained blank, the bolts of pain that slipped through his magic as he made himself rise were enough to make Mirk cringe. He channeled his urge to take hold of him and draw off some of the pain—it never worked on him anyway, but that didn’t keep him from instinctually wanting to—into straightening the quilts, folding them down and smoothing them to make room for the tray. The pain hadn’t made Genesis wince but making himself look down at the food did. 

“I know you still aren’t feeling very well, but you should be able to handle a little of that, _non_?” Mirk hoped he could. If he hadn’t bothered to sleep in a week, he certainly wouldn’t have bothered with food. At present, Genesis was balanced on the tipping point between thin and skeletal; he still hadn’t recovered from the last time he’d gone too long without eating, when he’d disappeared for a month and come back mostly dead. A handful of missed meals would be enough to strip away what little progress he’d made since then.

Reluctantly, Genesis picked up the fork that’d been placed beside the plate full of fruit and examined it, critically, turning it this way and that in the light. He stabbed a wedge of apple, stared at it a bit, then ate it. After a considerable pause, he ate another. Though he knew he couldn’t hide his relief, Mirk decided it’d be best not to say anything about it. He searched for something else to talk about instead.

“I went to see Niv.”

Genesis shot him a dark look—whether it was over him going to talk with him, or over the mere continued fact of K’aekniv’s existence was hard to tell. “…yes?”

“He’s very sorry. He wasn’t thinking right when he told you to leave. Love does strange things to a person, I’m afraid.” 

“Love,” Genesis muttered, with something approaching a laugh—a sharp, derisive hissing sound.

“Niv cares for Miss Lina very much already. You don’t have to be an empath to feel it.” K’aekniv’s emotions on the matter had been so strong that they’d nearly overwhelmed him. It was a feeling he hadn’t come across in a long time, the same sort of earnest and absolute devotion that a child showed a parent, or a priest his God. Unfortunately, he hadn’t felt a bit of the same coming off Lina, who’d been clutching his arm possessively the whole while that Mirk had been talking with him, eying him with great suspicion. She was wondering what degree of influence Mirk had over him and how that would impact her control of him. Her feelings toward K’aekniv weren’t cold, exactly, but they weren’t loving either—more like the sort of proprietary thoughts a Lord had about a prize thoroughbred. Though it was rude to pry, Mirk hadn’t hesitated to sidle past her shielding and into her head while K’aekniv had been distracting her. A friend’s happiness was at stake. And it looked as if it could be in peril, if Lina’s feelings didn’t start to change soon. Mirk had resolved to keep an eye on it. 

Genesis ate in silence, thinking. When he did speak again, it was very slowly, and with a slight look of disgust. “I was…under the impression that K’aekniv…cared only for the…carnal aspects of women, so to speak.”

“Sex and love are two different things, yes, but they do go together, depending.”

The disgusted expression grew. Like Mirk had just suggested that he join the priesthood, or a traveling carnival, or something else he felt nothing but disdain for. “…right.”

Mirk fidgeted with the sleeves of his robes, trying to think up a way to explain it to Genesis. It would probably be a futile endeavor—he never doubted that Genesis could feel all the same emotions the rest of them did, it was whether he understood them the same way that was questionable—but the subject seemed too important to gloss over. “It’s a different feeling when they do. I suppose you can’t feel other people, though…it’s a very warm feeling. A close feeling.”

Genesis showed no signs of recognition. Mirk tried to think of things that he could compare the feelings to, things that he could be sure the commander was familiar with. “Like…” Organizing files? Too cold. 

“…hmm…” Finishing a complicated assignment? He didn’t think it exactly right to compare the all-encompassing brilliance of true love to the feeling one got looking down at the corpse of a man they’d just garroted. 

“…maybe it’d be like a bath, to you?” That was warm, at least. Peaceful. “That doesn’t seem quite right, but I don’t know how else to explain it. Warm. Together. Happy.” Very much like the dream he’d had last night, Mirk thought, with an involuntary shiver. Very much unlike how it felt when sex and love were at complete odds, when it was sex and hate, sex and loathing. Immediately, Mirk forced his mind away from the topic.

Genesis didn’t seem impressed. For a moment, though, it looked like he might have said something on the subject, but when he stabbed at his plate once more and found it empty, whatever it was got lost in his annoyance. The conversation had distracted him enough to get him to eat a whole meal, which made the whole thing worthwhile, despite his failure at getting the point across to him. Mirk leaned over and put the back of his hand against his forehead. 

They were still the same temperature. He adjusted his hand a few times, but the warmth stayed the same. Mirk got to his feet and moved closer to him, taking a close look at each of his eyes. Both of them were focusing and reacting properly, no longer twitching or tracking him as if he was moving instead of standing still. That was good—considering what a mess Genesis had been last night, he’d been worried that one of the commander’s falls might have damaged something inside his head.

He stepped back and surveyed his options. Letting him recover on his own was always a possibility, but he didn’t like to let him have fevers for too long, especially with how little he could usually be convinced into eating and drinking. It was easier to get him to take one potion than it was to make him take regular meals. Besides, trying that mostly led to him vomiting up all the liquids and solids that had been so painstakingly forced into him. Mirk went to his bag and rummaged through it in search of the potion that had held him up at the infirmary for hours.

“Your fever still hasn’t gone down. Here.” After finally locating the potion, Mirk paused to pour a mug of water from the tea kettle on his desk—fever potions never were very palatable—then handed him the potion and the water. “Take this.”

Genesis handled the potion vial with the barest tips of his fingers, shaking it to see how reactive it was. The golden lights caused by the plant-based portions of the potion knocking against its dissolved mineral powders made him frown in suspicion. “What…is it?”

“Medicine. Go on. It’s a little bitter, but it won’t hurt.”

Still leery of it, Genesis uncorked the potion and threw it back. The look on his face would have been comical, had Mirk not been worried that he was about to throw up his dinner, or, worse, choke himself by trying to down the mug of water while still gagging and coughing. Mirk took the mug from him, quickly pouring him more water.

“I suppose that one isn’t very nice.”

Genesis drained the cup again, distress thankfully fading, though he still seemed rather resentful. “No…it is not.”

Mirk took the vial and mug from him before the commander’s magic decided to destroy them in retaliation for the potion. As he was turned away, putting the mug back among the rest of his collection and tucking the vial back in his bag so that it would end up going back to the infirmary instead of rolling about under his bed or behind the books on his desk for weeks, he felt a bevy of sharp pinpricks of pain from behind him. Genesis was trying to lie back down, caught halfway between upright and horizontal, shaking. In an instant Mirk was beside him, looping a supportive arm around him to sit him back upright again. With his free hand, he nudged at his back, unsurprised to find that his muscles were stiff and tense.

“You’re all knots, Genesis. You didn’t lie down at all while you were awake all that time, did you?”

“Customarily…the sole purpose of that position is sleep.”

Why did he feel the constant need to make himself miserable? Maybe it was some sort of reflexive guilt, a self-imposed punishment, since no one else seemed inclined to try to do it to him. Mirk couldn’t tell whether it was a conscious action on his part or a subconscious one. “Hmph. Roll over, then.”

Genesis tensed, causing another flurry of pain to escape through his protective chaos. “…what?”

“Would you like to be miserable all night, or would you like for me to fix it?”

Mirk expected him to refuse or, at the least, argue with him for a bit. Instead, he heaved himself over onto his stomach, grumbling complaints to himself under his breath. Mirk didn’t know whether to be concerned or pleased about the commander’s compliance. About how he only made a cursory comment about “healers always having to be in everyone else’s space” before letting him pull off his borrowed chemise. However, the fact that he soon began to shiver with both the quilts and the chemise gone spurred him into continuing. Gently, he settled his hands on the nape of his neck, pressing only slightly against him. Genesis hissed as the pain spiked once more through his magic. There was something not quite right about it, the edge of it tinged with a feeling close to pleasure. Cringing, Mirk drew back.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, _messire_ , it’s…it’s just a little worse than I thought. I’ll be more careful…sorry…”

Genesis twitched one hand at him, dismissively, but otherwise didn’t reply. Mirk tried again, this time smoothing his hands across the strained muscles rather than pressing down on them. At least he wasn’t horrifically cold—though his fevers seemed, oddly, to never really make it to his limbs, generally the rest of him got to a semi-normal temperature. He worked his way across his shoulders, drawing up a bit of his own life energy and channeling it into his hands, warming them. It made him dizzy, but also made things quicker. Once the muscles were properly warmed, no longer so tense, it was possible to work the soreness out of them without causing much pain.

The clock ticking on the edge of his desk was particularly loud that night. And the hall beyond his room was dead silent, with no signs of the usual drunk or two making their evening stumble to the bathroom. Maybe he was imagining things. Mirk had a feeling that one was supposed to talk to a patient while doing this sort of procedure, but he hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin. There were safe topics all the healers used regularly—how’s the job, aren’t commanders a pain, did you hear about so-and-so and so-and-so, a pity you’re in here, but how’s life otherwise, and so on. Genesis hated that sort of small talk. He’d be better off staying quiet.

Instead, he distracted himself from the unnerving silence by studying the commander, watching close with both mind and eyes for any more signs of pain. Nothing. It was taking a lot of effort, but Genesis was beginning to relax, the muscles softening under his hands. Really, his skin was a marvel, Mirk thought: he’d known noble ladies who’d stayed inside whole summers and subjected themselves to every salve and poultice possible trying to get themselves to be as pale and smooth as he was. A combination, probably, of demonic blood (most full-blood demons spelled themselves into growing hair just for show) and the effects of his magic, the chaos wearing everything down to its thinnest possible layer. Mirk blinked a few times, rapidly, moving his gaze upwards. It wasn’t like him to stare at patients’ bodies, not unless he was trying to diagnose them or closing wounds. He had to have been more tired already than he’d thought.

Though Genesis’s face was mostly hidden in his arms, he could still see enough of it to tell he wasn’t annoyed, at least. There was a strange expression on it, one Mirk couldn’t recall ever having seen before, something between a grimace and a frown, one corner of his mouth upturned, the other twitching, the rest of his face motionless. Curious, he worked at an area he’d been skirting around, a particularly stiff knot. As he kneaded it away, Genesis managed to get both corners of his mouth upturned, the muscles around one closed eye ticking.

Was he…smiling?

Or trying to? Mirk could recall him grinning on occasion, but the expression was a cold one, a sharp one, one that generally meant someone was about to find themselves short a limb or two. At times he’d thought he was attempting to smile, but he’d never been very successful, instead looking like he was either going to sneeze or start seizing. Mirk concluded that it had to be his version of smiling, even if it was jumbled and strained.

Though it was a sad specimen, the smile was infectious; Mirk had to concentrate to keep himself from starting to hum as he continued, pressing harder with the heels of his hands now that he was sure he wasn’t going to hurt him. There were other signs too, he noticed, now that he was looking for them. His fingers were twitching. The barest tips of ears had gone red. 

_If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think he likes you._

Could that be true, really? He’d always thought that everything Genesis did for him was out of obligation, guilt, or was self-serving, in some roundabout way that he couldn’t decipher. He thought of the commander as a close friend, true, but the best he thought he’d get in return for his sentiments was a faint acknowledgement that he could be useful, at times. But maybe, just like everyone else, he had been judging Genesis too harshly. After all, if he didn’t even know how to smile naturally, how could he be expected to know how to show friendship? Perhaps he was showing it in a way that none of them understood, his method of showing affection just another relic of the dead culture he’d been raised in, like his odd code of honor and clacking language.

Regardless, he’d finished working out most of the soreness; it would be best to stop while he was ahead. With a final pass of his hands across his shoulders, he drew back, calling the life back into his center, shaking his head to clear away the returning dizziness. After a lengthy pause, Genesis turned onto his back, expression having resumed its normal blankness. Already, he’d begun to shiver again. Instead of pulling up the quilts, he hunched in on himself, crossing his arms protectively over his chest.

Laughing, Mirk did it for him, making certain they were straight so that Genesis wouldn’t start fussing with them. “Better?”

Another long pause. Then a grudging, barely discernable yes.

“Good. I’ll let you alone so you can go back to sleep, then.” Mirk chewed on his lip as he ran through his options for places to stay, sorting out the healers he knew well enough to call on from those who’d find it awkward. “Let’s see…Yule’s no good, he has friends over all the time…maybe Danu’s been promoted far enough to have a divan, or a nice chair…”

“No.”

The response startled him enough that he jumped. Genesis was still staring up at the ceiling, expressionless, but he must have been the one to say it. “What?”

“I believe…the cause of all this trouble…was removing persons from their rightful places. I will not continue the pattern.”  
It hardly sounded like reason enough for Genesis to shove aside his knee-jerk dislike of being touched. What was he actually getting at? “Oh…”

“In any case. Once…a man can sleep in the same bed as K’aekniv, he can sleep through any adversity, if determined enough.”

All Mirk could do was give a weak laugh, a shrug he hoped didn’t look too uncomfortable. Was it some sort of test? And if so, to what end? “He’s not that bad. You just have a hard time falling asleep. That’s why I don’t want to bother you out of a good night’s rest.”

Genesis worked an arm out from under the quilts, waving his hand at him dismissively. “Do…as you will, then.” Promptly, he drew his arm back in, fidgeting a bit and turning his head away from him. 

Mirk bit his lip, staring down at the commander’s motionless, quilt-encased form. Whatever Genesis meant by it, he wasn’t about to refuse an offer that it had visibly pained him to make. Which confused him—did Genesis honestly think that he’d refuse to stay with him? The thought of Genesis being too bashful to ask for something so simple was enough to make him laugh, as he went about rummaging in his piles of clothes for his nightshirt. How could a man who would unflinchingly slit someone’s throat be flustered by the thought of having to ask a friend to stay with him?

“You’re very strange sometimes, _messire_.”

“I suspect…it is the lot of you who are strange, not I.”

Not wanting to crawl over him while he was still wide awake, Mirk went to the end of the bed and wriggled his way up to the head of it. He’d already curled up beside him and put his head on his shoulder before he realized what he was doing, stopping just short of putting an arm around him. He looked over at Genesis, expecting to find him glaring at him. Instead, he was giving him a skeptical look. The commander hadn’t even tensed up at the sudden contact. Mirk found it all confusing, strange. But also reassuring. Pleasing. Now that he was back in the spot he’d been in that morning, the memory of how comfortable and reassuring it was to sleep beside him was coming back in a rush, making him want to take hold of Genesis whether it annoyed him or not.

“…what?” Genesis asked, eying the lump in the quilts that was his arm hovering above him.

Cautious, Mirk let his arm drop. Genesis didn’t react. There was no tenseness, no scowl, no attempt to knock his arm away or escape his hold. Relieved, Mirk let out the smile he’d been holding back.

“So you’ve decided that being friendly isn’t terrible after all?”

Genesis sighed, heavily. “Rather…I am resigned to my fate.”

Laughing, Mirk let the rest of his instinctual reactions go, embracing him fully and pressing up snug against his still shivering body, shifting his head to the most comfortable spot he could find amongst the bones of his shoulder and chest. “If you’re not careful, Genesis, you may start to make me think you actually like me.”

His only reply was a tisk. But he was also still there, still relaxed and close against him, still accepting of his comfort and support. Which was proof enough to Mirk that, regardless of what sort of faces and comments Genesis made, the commander might actually consider him a friend instead of a chore.

“Good night, Gen,” Mirk mumbled, certain his words were lost in the piles of quilts. He squeezed him a bit to ensure that his point got across nevertheless.

Genesis didn’t respond. But, as he slipped into the hazy space between dreams and reality, he thought he felt Genesis grudgingly put an arm around him in turn.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot returns! Mirk gets an offer he can't refuse. Um. Not that he's great at refusing things anyway...
> 
> It's finals week, so I'm probably not going to have much time to work on this until next Friday, alas. But! I anticipate being able to still hack together one more update between then and now, however. And then, there'll be time for all the writing...
> 
> Thanks so much for reading~!

“Oh dear…not again, Comrade Kali…”

The woman, ignoring the blood seeping through the fingers of the hand she had pressed to her stomach, shot him a sour look. “Look, I didn’t come here to get lectured at. I came here to get healed. Think you can manage that?”

Sighing, Mirk rolled up the sleeves of his robes as he elbowed the door to the exam room shut. “I don’t mean to be a bother, Comrade, it’s only that I worry about you. If you keep getting hurt there—”

“Zere’ll be none of ze baybees, and zen we will all be so sad,” she cut in, speaking with what Mirk thought to be a particularly half-hearted attempt at his accent. “I get it. I heard you the first time. All right?”

Mirk’s polite smile didn’t waver. Though he knew Comrade Kali had to be trying her best to be stubborn, she didn’t know that he regularly came across much more intractable patients. “All that aside, methinks it can’t be good for you to be in here every week, _non_? It would seem to me that it might be proving a point to someone.”

Her defiant glare faded a bit as she dragged herself around until she was lying properly on the exam table. “It’s none of her business.”

“You’re her daughter.” Mirk said over one shoulder, as he fished a suture kit and flesh regeneration potion from the cabinet opposite the table. “Mothers always worry about their daughters, even if they do everything they say.”

As he readied the supplies, lining them up along the edge of the exam table, he waited for Kali’s answer. The young woman refused to respond. But she did permit him to examine the wound, lowering her hands to her sides. Carefully, Mirk pulled her tunic back out of the way, nudged her leather sword belt down, taking the odd half-breeches, half-skirt garment she wore with it. The wound wasn’t as deep as it could have been. But scars snaked across her stomach, overlapping time after time, some parts of her still mostly held together with recently regenerated flesh, while others had come together to form thick, raised keloid scars. He placed his hands lightly on top of the wound, examining it with his senses rather than physically, not wanting to accidentally make it worse by disrupting the healing of one of the older wounds.

“Well…at least it’s not as bad as the last one, Comrade Kali.” The last one had left her pale and unconscious, drenched in sweat, and stuck in the surgical recovery ward for a full week. 

She snorted. “I am capable of learning from my mistakes, you know.”

Mirk glanced up at her, at the poorly constructed cuirass that constituted the upper half of her body armor. It had obviously belonged to a man before she’d taken it—a short and narrow man, even. A giant swath of her midsection was left unprotected. “You wouldn’t have to learn if you had someone make you proper armor.”

“What the hell do you think I’m fighting for? _Fun?_ ”

“Methinks your family should have plenty enough money to have one made for you…and there are always friends…”

Her voice went cold. “I can take care of myself.”

Mirk shook his head, concentrating his attention back on the wound. He hadn’t decided yet what to do about it. Standard treatment would be tending to any severed blood vessels, slapping the flesh regeneration potion—a goopy, greenish substance that smelled strongly of marigolds and yarrow—in the wound, and stitching it shut. That was how several of the other healing wounds had been treated. Biting his lip and focusing hard, he pulled the life energy from his center, called to the part of it that helped with making. The least he could do for her, Mirk thought, was heal one wound properly for her.

The procedure was draining, but not difficult—Kali’s modest water magic made it easier, as did her faint Order orientation. He’d become used to struggling with dark mages, fire mages, every single Chaos oriented mage they could throw at him. Magic that fought against his rather than worked with it. And, sad though it was, he’d meddled about in her innards enough times by then to have her particular structure all but memorized, able to replicate the patterns and draw pieces together into the right spots without having to even think about it. Once he was certain everything had come together again, he drew his energy back into himself and pulled away from her, fighting a wave of dizziness that made him stumble back into the cabinet behind him. As his vision cleared, the dizziness morphed fast into a headache and a deep pain in his own midsection.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Mirk went to rub at his forehead but caught himself just in time—both his hands were full of blood. After glancing back into the ewer of water on the top of the cabinet and finding it empty, he settled for wiping them off on the front of his robes. “No, I didn’t.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

Mirk tried to fix a smile on his face despite the fact that he knew it’d most likely come out looking strained. “I don’t pity you, Comrade Kali. I admire you. And shouldn’t friends help friends?”

She looked uncomfortable, torn, as she swung her legs off the exam table and poked a bit at her healed stomach. “There’s something wrong with you.”

He laughed, immediately regretting it as the pain in his stomach flared. “Oh, _bien sûr_ , but I can’t help it, not really. You remind me of my sister.”

Which was the truth—from the first time he met her, the resemblance struck him and made him feel like taking her by the shoulders and pleading with her to stop fighting, to go back to the Glass Tower and do something safe, still useful, but safe. But it would have been just as futile to say that sort of thing to Kali as it would have been to Kae. They had their pride, and they had their determination, and their ideals, and no task would satiate their hunger for justice other than fighting. Everyone had their purpose, after all. Mirk only wished that God would stop making war the purpose of those he became attached to. 

Kali was searching for something to say, continuing to stare down at her scarred stomach. Mirk was about to cut in with something breezy and casual, something to alleviate the frustration he could feel boiling up in her, when he was saved by a knock on the door.

“Mirk! Messenger for Comrade Kali!” 

It was Sheila, sounding much too intrigued for her own good. Scowling, Kali yanked down her tunic and jumped off the table, adjusting her sword belt and taking up a defensive, cross-armed stance. “I swear, if it’s about that idiot noble banshee, I’ll gut whatever damn Djin they’ve sent after me now.”

Doing his best to clear his head and project a sense of supportive concern, Mirk went to her side, mostly to be in a good position to intervene should she decide to follow through on her threat. “Come in!” he called out, since Kali showed no sign of doing so herself.

As Kali had predicted, Shelia ushered in a tall, immaculately dressed Djin messenger. The healer lurked in the doorway, far too fascinated by the situation to walk away from it. Kali was so absorbed in glaring at her, and Shelia in smiling back, that the both of them didn’t realize that the Djin had gone to him instead of Kali until he was right in front of him, standing at a polite distance, performing a differential bow that Mirk found worryingly familiar.

“What…me?”

The Djin bowed again, this time offering out an envelope of fine parchment. “ _Seigneur_ Avignon.”

That technically was him, now, Mirk supposed. The thought of it made his stomach hitch and ache enough to turn his vision spotty, made his hands shake, slightly, as he took the letter. He watched the Djin from the edge of his vision, as he made as if to examine the letter. The tall man settled back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, eyes cast down. Waiting for him to read the letter and respond. Worrying his lip, he flipped the letter over, eying the wax seal that closed it. A willow tree. 

“Oh…Madame Beaumont…” he mumbled to himself under his breath as he opened it. It took him a moment to focus himself enough to be able to read her elegant, flowing French script.

_My dear friend,_

_I have only recently found out where you’ve gone to, so forgive me for my delay in writing. I am of the firm belief that those who find themselves subject to the same circumstances are best served by being of use to one another. So, I leave myself at your service, whatever the need. Considering your abrupt departure, perhaps you would be interested in knowing what events have most recently transpired among us? I fear it’s far too much to be explained in one letter—doubtlessly, if rumor proves correct, the K’maneda grant their members little time for even such paltry luxuries as good correspondence. If it pleases you, I extend to you an invitation to tomorrow’s afternoon tea, at which time we can discuss these matters at our leisure. If you find this time inconvenient, please do tell M. Am-Hazek one that would suit you better.(Don’t hesitate to speak frankly with him—he has been in the service of my house for ages, and has been freed for most of them.) I have settled upon remaining in London for the remainder of the year, so the matter isn’t pressing, though I do hope to hear from you sooner than later._

_Remember: you are never as alone as you think you are._

_With warmest sentiments, your constant friend,  
C. Beaumont_

Mirk read the letter twice, well aware of the two women staring at him the whole while. When he finally summoned the nerve to speak to the Djin, he did so in French, careful to keep his expression cheerful, in a composed way. 

“Monsieur…Am-Hazek, is it?”

The Djin gave a slight nod.

“Tell Madame that I’ll be there. If I may, where is she staying, again? I don’t remember her talking much about her time in England.”

He replied in a neutral tone, looking at him in that strange way that Djin were prone to—meeting his eyes yet somehow looking past and away from him at the same time. “Madame will be sending the carriage for you, I believe, _Seigneur_. At one. If it pleases you.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine, yes, but…if I could ask one favor?”

Another differential bob of the head. “I am at your service.”

“Send it to the next street over from the north gate. I’m sure Madame appreciates that things are, er, delicate, at the moment.” It was bad enough that Sheila and Kali had seen the Djin meet with him. If anyone saw him getting into the sort of carriage a woman like Madame Beaumont would keep, the talk would bury him alive. Not that he particularly wanted to hide the truth from any of them—they did know, after all, that he was high-born and that he was a half-breed—but he didn’t feel comfortable with them knowing that he hadn’t completely cut ties with his past. He was well aware of what sort of things such attention could cause. Or perhaps spending so much time with Genesis as of late was making his paranoia rub off on him.

“I will tell Madame of your concerns.” Mirk thought his gaze grew a bit more focused, as Mirk fidgeted uncomfortably with the letter, trying to remember the right way to extract himself from the conversation. “At your leave, _Seigneur_ Avignon?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, that’s all, Monsieur. Tomorrow, then.”

Mirk thought he saw the Djin smirk, as he gave a deeper bow before turning on his heel and leaving. It wasn’t a derisive one—more like sympathetic, or at least, that was what the few pinpricks of emotion that escaped his shielding felt like. Sheila turned and looked after him, appraisingly.

“Well…what was _that_?” she drawled, turning her grin on him.

Mirk waved her off, as he tucked the letter up the sleeve of his robes. “Oh, just an old friend of the family. She’s very fond of letters.”

“And money,” Kali muttered, pulling distractedly at her cuirass. Crossing her arms had made it ride up and dig into her ribs.

“Really, it’s not as interesting as it looks. Just gossip from Court. Methinks she just pities me a bit, that’s all.” Mirk gave a helpless shrug, mind spinning with excuses, with half-truths, anything to satiate their curiosity without giving up too much. Fortunately, he was saved for the second time that afternoon by a sudden intrusion—this time it was an indistinct figure in black bolting down the hall behind Sheila, three aides in hot pursuit of it. One of them stumbled to a halt, grabbing hold of the exam room’s doorframe.

“Gregori…escaped…madness…” the man panted, tugging desperately at the back of Sheila’s robes.

“Oh, all right, all right, hang on,” Sheila muttered, shooing him away. Rolling her eyes, she gestured at Mirk to follow her. “Come on. I’m too tired to handle one of these myself. Besides,” and here she paused, giving him a toothy grin that rather prominently displayed her elongated incisors, “Yule tells me you’re good with lunatics.”

Sighing, Mirk took Kali by the arm, leading her to the door. “Providence makes no mistakes. I suppose.”

\- - -

“Well, don’t we look handsome? Here I was expecting you to show up wearing one of those awful uniforms of theirs…”

Mirk laughed, as the heavy French doors closed behind him and he made his way cautiously into Madame Beaumont’s parlor. He was doing his best to seem calm, airy, unconcerned. It most likely wasn’t working. “I thought it would be terribly insulting to come dressed in the robes they’ve given me. A lady of your standing deserves better than that. Besides, I didn’t want to get blood all over your coach.”

At least she returned his laugh, as he reached her side, presenting her with a differential, low bow. In response to it, she laughed again, seizing him by the shoulders as he straightened up and kissing him on both cheeks. A bit of relief began to trickle through his worry. “It’s good to see you, my boy.”

“As it is you, Madame.”

She gestured him to a seat—he took it, glancing over at the table the finely upholstered chairs were clustered around. Tea had already been delivered. She must really have had something important to tell him, something more than just gossip, if she didn’t want the servants hearing any of it. Madame Beaumont ignored the tray of cups and sweets, turning to him instead as she sat beside him, reaching out and grasping one of his hands. She was warm. It made Mirk smile.

“I hate to sound dramatic, but I’d really thought that the Avignons had been lost this time. I should have known better. Jean-Luc always had a trick or two up his sleeve.”

As quickly as he’d recovered, he sank back down again into worry and dismay, though he did his best not to let it show. “Grandfather always had his ways.”

“The K’maneda, though? He didn’t seem to me like the type to get involved with them.”

“He wasn’t,” Mirk said, with an uncomfortable shrug. “They got involved for their own reasons.” For a moment, he could think of nothing but Father Jean, struggling on his stomach through the wreck of the manse, the light in his eyes dying as he searched for him.

“Fortunate, then,” she replied—she didn’t miss his momentary drifting off; she never missed anything. “Your poor father aside, the Empire really isn’t such a good lot to throw oneself in with if one has any intent of getting anywhere in the world.”

Mirk nodded, doing his best to keep looking at her instead of down at his knees. “Well, it is what it is, now. I feel awful for leaving home. But one person doesn’t make for much of a family.”

A strange light had come into her eyes, half amused and half challenging. “What makes you think you’re the only one still around?”

Before he could contain himself, his senses were already stretching out to her, examining her for falsehood, for ulterior motives. There wasn’t anything there. He hopped Madame Beaumont didn’t have enough empathetic magic to have sensed his prodding around at the edges of her mind. “Who’s left?” he asked, voice coming out in a croak.

“Your Aunt Christine got wind of what was going to happen, which isn’t surprising, all things considered. Though, no offense to her, God bless her soul, I was surprised to learn that she would cross her husband for the sake of the Avignons. She’d slap anyone who called her an Avignon rather than a Montigny. In any case, she managed to get her two youngest to Isabelle, and she passed them on to Henri and sent them along with her children off back to Bordeaux. They’ve all been hiding up in that factory of his ever since.” 

“Henri’s alive?” Mirk asked, unable to contain his shock. He’d have thought Henri would have been the first to go, considering his paltry magic and the fact that there was no family standing behind him to avenge his death. 

“Just barely. He wrote me a letter and sent it up with your cousin Armel.”

“Armel’s here?” Instinctively, he tried to get to his feet, but, with surprising strength, Madame Beaumont pulled him back down, shaking her head.

“It was a hard trip for him. Those demons the Montignys hired on are still after Henri and the children. It would seem that they wish to be very thorough in making sure that there’s no more of you.”

Mirk fell silent, trying to process all that Madame Beaumont had told him without mumbling to himself or gaping at the floor like a fish out of water. He’d been firmly convinced that all of them had been killed—if they hadn’t, he would have thought someone would have found them and told him sooner. Henri truly had to have been hiding himself and the others well for the K’maneda not to have caught wind of things. It had to have been Henri’s daughters doing it—Claire and Inès—they had their mother’s magic, along with the will to keep using it even if it was draining them almost to death. Otherwise Henri never would have let Armel leave. “Do…do you think they know where I am, too? The demons?”

Madame Beaumont snorted. “Doubtlessly. But even the Montignys aren’t so prideful as to think they can defend against the Empire and the K’maneda at the same time. Your father’s people aren’t exactly pleased about these events either, you know. Who was it I saw…hmm, tall fellow, Moorish-looking…”

“Commander Aker?”

“Yes! He’s been tearing about the country with half his Host looking for those House Rose vampires. I assume he’s only been leaving the Montignys alone on orders from above. Rumor has it that they’ve been trying to get one of their women attached to a Host sub-commander. He was in a terrible mood when I ran into him last. But he was polite enough to let me know that you hadn’t been killed with the rest.”

Mirk turned this over in his head, unable to keep from thinking of the suit of armor Aker had sent him, the one still flecked with his father’s blood. “Is there any way you could help me speak with him, Madame? Henri’s not safe at all, I can’t believe he’s held out this long, even, we need to…er…I need to…”

She shook her head, reaching out to pour herself what was doubtlessly a tepid cup of tea. If it bothered her, she didn’t show it, taking a long sip. “I’m not certain contacting the Empire would be your best course of action, my dear. In any case, I’ve already seen to it.”

“You have?”

Very slowly, she winked at him over the rim of her teacup. “You’re not the only one with friends on the darker side of things.”

“Oh…” He couldn’t control it any longer. Now that Madame Beaumont had let go of him, there was nothing stopping him from wringing his hands. “I…I’m in your debt, Madame.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I have no doubt you and your terrible friends will be of plenty use to me in the future anyway. Besides, as I said, it’s important for those of us in similar situations to stick together.”

She had; and it meant as little to him then as it had back when he’d first read her letter. “Er…forgive me, Madame, but one finds the connection a bit difficult to see, really.”

“I’m assuming you aren’t planning on going out and getting yourself married right away now that you’ve found out some of the family is still alive?”

Mirk shuddered at the thought of it—he’d seen enough political marriages go bitter and violent to know enough to want nothing to do with them, now that there was no one around who thought marriage to be a workable plan for his future. “Oh, no! Of course not. But what does that have to do with anything?”

Madame Beaumont settled back in her chair, turning her gaze on the ceiling as she sipped absently at her cup of tea. “After Joseph died, everyone was itching to see who I’d move onto next. But, frankly, after having been stuck with that ass—if you’d pardon my being so harsh—for ten years, taking up another family was the last thing I wanted to do. True, the fever took dear Josephine and Daniel just the same as it took Joseph, but…” 

Mirk hazarded extending a tendril of his senses out toward her, nearly flinching back upon feeling the churning mess of anger and despair the conversation had drawn out of her, despite the impassive expression on her face. He thought about projecting a bit of sympathy to her but decided against it. Mortals and non-empaths tended to react poorly to that, tended to feel like he was pushing them around instead of trying to help them. 

“…I’d had it with that mess, honestly. I thought there was nothing wrong with being one’s own woman, fortune or not. The fortune does make it much easier, though. It kept the backbiting and plotting down to a manageable level. It took me a long time to get above it to where I am now. But there’s a certain contentment found in having done something yourself that makes all the hassle worthwhile. Regardless, you see my point now, yes? Having to stand up alone among all the rest and keep your place is challenging. Very few have tried, and of those, many have either lost their houses to obscurity, or settled for marriage, or been knifed in the back. So, as I said, it’s beneficial to both of us to stick together. Just because one decides to do things themselves doesn’t mean that a good friend doesn’t have their place in the scheme of things as well.”

“I…well, of course, Madame. I’m at your service. Though I don’t think I can do you much good.” Which was what was confusing him now. Why would a woman as powerful as Madame Beaumont decide to help him, a poorly trained mage who had fallen in with a group no one in their right mind wanted anything to do with? He doubted some sort of comradery over being in charge of diminished families was enough to tie her to him without there being something important he was missing that she wanted from him in return.

Or perhaps living with the K’maneda was making him paranoid. It was possible. Not probable, but there was always hope. 

“I’ll be the judge of that, my boy. In the meantime, it’s really no trouble at all to bring Henri and the others up here. It wouldn’t be very Christian to let them all die, you know. The men I sent for them should have them to London in a little under a fortnight. You can come then to work out with them how to proceed. In fact, that was another reason why I invited you…”

Madame Beaumont set down her cup, rifling through a pile of correspondence that the tea tray had pushed to the edge of the table. She came up with an ornate, cream-colored envelope, passing it to him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “There’s really no need to give you one of these, since I can speak to you in person, but, well, one becomes attached to a certain amount of formality. As I will be spending the winter here, I thought it would be nice to air out the old house with a bit of a party, yes? It’s in a fortnight as well, so you can come talk to Henri without raising suspicions. And no need to be concerned about appearances—it’s strictly an affair for the old mage nobility.”

Mirk tucked the invitation properly away in the breast pocket of his coat, trying to ignore how it seemed to weigh heavily there, making the right half of his body three times more difficult to hold up than the rest. He’d thought he was finally through with it—balls, parties, society, nobility. He shouldn’t have been so foolish as to think no one from his old life would ever find him. “My thanks, Madame. It’s very kind of you to think of me.”

She cackled, pouring herself another cup of tea. “Don’t speak too soon! You don’t know the half of things yet.”

“I…what?”

“As I am a good hostess and am not one to snub any party unduly, and as I see no benefit of getting on the bad side of any of the Elemental Guilds, I’ve invited the Feulaines. Which, of course, means that Yvette and her dear, sweet fiancé will doubtlessly be coming with along with the _Seigneur_ and his wife.”

In the time it took Mirk to process this, he’d been offered and accepted his own chilly cup of tea and a madeleine, both of which he nearly dropped in horror once he’d sorted out why the presence of the Feulaines would matter at all to him. “Is…isn’t Laurent Montigny Yvette’s…ah…”

Madame Beaumont nodded, grinning.

“Oh…dear.”

“He’s almost entirely bluster, my dear, I assure you,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Besides, I would think that someone who had spent half a year now among the K’maneda wouldn’t be frightened by someone as foppish as Laurent Montigny.” 

Admittedly, she had a point. From what he could remember about him, Laurent was a shortish, wiry young man with average fire magic, though he had definite skill with a rapier, as swordsmanship was his main hobby, a fact that he took great efforts to impress upon everyone he met. As terrifying as the thought of Laurent cursing at him and drawing steel was, Mirk supposed that he had nothing on most of the infantrymen that were dragged in from the transporter, still struggling and bellowing and swinging their knives in a fit of blind rage despite the fact that their innards were starting to fall out of them. “I…well. I’m not very well suited to fighting, though, Madame. I’d always thought it best to avoid it whenever possible.”

“I have absolute faith in your ability to handle him and anyone else who decides to be discourteous, Mirk. Besides. It is prudent, when one returns to society after a time away, to come back with a bang, so to speak. You know, show them you shouldn’t be trifled with and such. A show of force.”

Mirk looked helplessly down into his cup of tea, its surface rippling due to the shaking of his hand, and let out a long sigh. 

“And besides that, he’s from the lowbrow side of the family, as I’m certain you remember. They wouldn’t recognize him at all if his father hadn’t been a war hero and Serge wasn’t so fond of him. If the man knows what’s good for him, he’ll come up and ask to shake your hand for taking them down a notch.”

She had a point; it didn’t make him feel any better about all of it. “God gives us no burden we cannot bear…” he mumbled.

“That’s the spirit. Now, how about a fresh pot of tea? This really is hideous, isn’t it? I’ll ring for the girl and have her fetch it.”

Though Mirk wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room and retreat to the relative safety of the City of Glass, he nodded and took a miserable bite out of his madeleine.

\- - -

“No, no, that won’t do. Sober. Sober…”

Mirk knew he was muttering to himself, which wasn’t a particularly sober act in and of itself. But it helped to keep the world from spinning, thus keeping him from stumbling about like a fool from one side of the street to the other. 

“A little fresh air and everything will be fine.”

He hadn’t meant to get drunk. He’d only stopped in for one drink to soothe his frazzled nerves following his tea with Madame Beaumont. But then K’aekniv and Mordecai had been there, and both of them looked miserable because they were saving their money and had none to spend at the bar, and he felt bad leaving them there like that, so he’d offered them a few drinks, and it would have been rude of him not to drink as well, and…

“Just have to focus. Focus…focus…”

…he had problems saying no to K’aekniv’s silly plans once he had a few drinks in him. Which was why he’d decided to let K’aekniv put him in that night’s drinking contest, and had given him money to bet on him, and at that point, well, it would have been foolish for him not to win. Mirk was fortunate that there weren’t many of the more experienced drunks there. It was a rowdy Friday-night crowd, the sort that sent the regulars whose veins had more gin than blood in them off to private corners scattered about the City where they could get drunk in peace. He’d only just began to get dizzy by the time he’d won, huddled under his cloak to keep his nice suit hidden away, modestly begging off entreaties by shocked infantrymen to tell them how he did it.

“Ah…there it is. See? It’s not so bad. _Ben, allons-y, allons-y…allons à la maison, alors…_ ”

Then K’aekniv had started to collect his winnings and then the fighting started over whether or not he’d been cheating. At which point Mirk had decided to duck out, before he ended up getting involved and having to heal the lot of them. He felt a bit bad about leaving them to fend for themselves, but he had to work in the morning and things had gotten particularly nasty ever since the last campaign of the summer had started. Mirk thought it best to save his strength. 

Sucking in a deep breath, he forced himself to stop looking at his feet and instead look up at the façade of the healers’ dormitory. The building was quiet, most of the rooms with outside windows dark. Hopefully he wouldn’t run into anyone. The Russians and infantrymen in the bar hadn’t paid his odd, high-society dress much heed, as most of them were either too drunk or too preoccupied with the women to bother, but he was certain the other healers wouldn’t let him walk by without asking about it. Summoning the dregs of his badly depleted courage, fixing a pathetic sort of smile on his face, he bustled up the steps and went inside.

The front entryway was empty. So were the stairs, all the way up to the third floor. For a moment, he thought he saw someone lurking about in the hall close to his room, but when he looked again, making himself ignore the buzzing in the back of his head, there was nothing there. Nevertheless, he hurried to his door, managing to get it open with only a minimal amount of fumbling about with his keys. As he stepped inside, nudging at where the rune for the magelights was supposed to be, Mirk let out a sigh of relief.

“I see…you have been occupied this evening.”

Mirk yelped, stumbling backwards into the doorframe. Genesis was standing at the far end of the room, a thick, leather-bound book in hand, in the process of adding another line to one of the long sheets of parchment he’d tacked to the wall. Laughing awkwardly, Mirk edged back inside and shut the door. 

“Oh, you surprised me, _messire_. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here in the dark.”

The commander gave him a blank look. “The magelight beneath the desk…generates adequate light to work by.”

Mirk was still a bit shocked to see him there. He was familiar with his typical disappearing acts. K’aekniv had said that Genesis had regularly refused to come to bed until he forced him to when he was sharing a room with him. But for over a week now, he’d dutifully been there every night, though sometimes he fell asleep before he returned. He was always there when he woke up—apparently the time he regularly got up at aligned exactly with the time at which Genesis had his morning tea. Mirk wished that night would have been one of the ones where he didn’t return until two or three in the morning. Though he had prepared himself to look sober enough to politely defer the questions of anyone he knew who he might have come across walking back from the bar, he doubted his act would be able to fool Genesis. He decided to sit down on the bed; there wasn’t any chance of him doing any drunken weaving if he wasn’t standing.

“What are you working on?” he asked, gesturing at the sheets of paper. Maybe if he got him talking about magic, he’d ramble on until he could go to bed without raising suspicions. 

“A…trifling issue.” He closed the book, setting it aside on the desk along with his pencil, drawing over closer to the bed. “And may I ask…for what purpose you have donned…your royalist finery?”

Mirk looked down at himself, smoothing his justacorps. There wasn’t any point in not telling Genesis the truth, he supposed. Especially if he ultimately needed the commander’s help. “Do you remember Madame Beaumont?”

“…no.”

“Elderly, head of her own house, fond of large hats? Methinks you and her met at that first ball…”

Genesis frowned. “Ah. Right. That woman.”

“She invited me to tea. It’s…er, well, do you remember my uncle Henri? Isabelle’s husband? The armorer?” 

“Vaguely.”

“He’s alive.”

Genesis didn’t look surprised by this, though that didn’t mean much, considering how little he reacted to things in general. “Ah.”

“And so are all his children, at least, I think all of them are. Madame didn’t say any of them had died. Two of Aunt Christine’s are with them. Armel, Henri’s oldest, came and found Madame and asked for help. The vampires are still hunting them.”

This, at least, got Genesis to seem somewhat interested in his predicament. “And how…does this concern you?”

Mirk caught himself at the last minute, before he could reflexively raise his hand and swat him in the side. He’d gotten too accustomed to being around the other healers—or maybe his drunkenness was just keeping him from appreciating who exactly he was dealing with. “They’re my family, Genesis. Methinks I can’t leave them to die, _non_?”

“If one were…to be technical about the matter, you—”

“ _Genesis!_ ”

He’d slapped his hand over his mouth an instant too late. At least Genesis didn’t look offended by his scolding outburst. Instead, he was as inscrutable as always. He had to be more drunk than he felt. Clearing his throat, Mirk tried again. “I have a responsibility to my family, _messire_. The head of a house must look after its members.”

Mirk had been trying not to think of it ever since he’d left Madame Beaumont’s, but saying it aloud brought it crashing down on him, clearing away some of the comforting warmth that drinking always draped about the world. Never mind that he wasn’t the oldest, and nor was he the most worldly or wise; grandpère had given the staff to him, along with all its duties. He couldn’t put all of it behind him anymore, couldn’t banish all the memories to the back of his mind and bury them with new ones. His family, though brought down almost to nothing, was still alive. It was his task to ensure that they stayed alive, and to bring prosperity and safety back to them in order to, in some vague, paltry way, make up for their suffering. The thought of it made him feel sick—a dangerous thing when one had drank as much as he had that night. 

“One always has a choice.”

Genesis’s voice brought him back to the present. He had folded his arms over his chest and was giving a spot somewhere above his head a disapproving look. Mirk found himself laughing. That was another thing drinking did. One minute he could be crying, and he’d be giggling the next. “ _Bien sûr_ , but who would turn away family?”

The commander’s frown didn’t waver.

“Genesis, don’t be like that. You can sulk and frown all you want, but you’ve done plenty for all of us that you didn’t have to. Especially for me. I’m practically useless, but you keep helping me.”

Snorting, he made a dismissive motion at him.

“What? Do you not like me at all, _messire_?”

He considered his response for a long time, expression growing more cross with each passing second. “I…have never claimed…to dislike you.”

He really should have left it at that. But the drink had loosened his restraint, the part of him that kept him from pushing Genesis’s buttons. It really was hard to keep himself from doing it, once he knew what they were. For some reason, the more cross and frustrated the commander got, the more Mirk felt like laughing. Which was terribly cruel, and also entirely unexplainable, but there it was. “Oh? So you actually _do_ like me?”

“That is not…precisely the terminology I’d choose.”

Mirk grinned up at him, as he arched his eyebrows, questioningly. “Then what would you say instead?”

After glaring at the same spot above his head for an uncomfortable minute, Genesis made a frustrated hissing noise, turning on his heel and going to the dresser, banging open its top drawer. “I do not have…time for this nonsense. In any case. It is madness to attempt to…have a sensible conversation with a drunk.” Before Mirk could reply, he’d snatched up his sizeable collection of cleaning supplies and the odd Moorish clothes he slept in, and had hurried off, not even bothering to use the door, slipping out of the room through the shadows in the corner nearest the door instead.

Mirk did feel bad about making him upset, but, still, that didn’t keep the snickers from leaking out from under the hand he’d pressed to his mouth to try to contain them. It was hard for him to pinpoint exactly why upsetting someone would be funny—was it because he couldn’t feel the annoyance, like he could have with anyone else? As he summoned the last of his concentration and focused in on himself, studying his own emotions, he realized that he wasn’t just amused. There was something else there, something warm and hazy that spread slow through his mind, filling it with a strange, dreamy feeling, like the world had gone unreal. 

It didn’t make any sense, and he was far too drunk to consider the problem any longer. Shaking his head, still chuckling, Mirk flopped onto his side on the bed and, despite his best intentions to do otherwise, promptly fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "how oblivious can one man get" challenge continues! Well, two men, really, but I think Gen's too busy being mortified of germs in this one for that to apply to him. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! One essay down, two to go...at least it's the easy ones that are left. Then it's back to imaginary Russians instead of real ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, yes, and this chapter has a good bit of blood and guts in it (think war-related injuries), so if that bothers you, it might be best if you scrolled on to the last few paragraphs. Though, honestly, it's really not too bad, especially since things are getting put back together again instead of taken apart.

“What are you doing, Tschida?”

It took Mirk a few moments to detach himself from his work. Another few seconds passed before he realized that the hissed question that had come from the entrance to the surgical suite was directed at Eva. She had refused to respond to the summons immediately, still as engrossed in the procedure as he had been. When she did reply, it was in a distant, distracted manner that made the badly-shielded rage coming from out in the hall intensify. “Training Comrade Avignon. This patient has a slow abdominal bleed. It is instructive for him to see how it’s located and healed with minimal magical assistance.”

Lifting his head as little as possible, Mirk glanced over at the figure looming in the doorway. Cyrus, the commander of the Tenth Medical Division. His face was smooth, only faintly disapproving, but the emotion radiating off him was the potent combination of hate and anger that formed disgust. Disgust that was directed at him, not Eva. 

Despite this, his voice remained level, reserved. “Do you know who you’re working on?” 

“No,” Eva replied, flatly.

Cyrus moved forward into the room, the surgical suite’s swinging doors falling shut behind him. Now that he was fully inside, the mingled hate and anger slipping through the head healer’s shields was strong enough to make Mirk gag. “Get him closed. Now, please.”

“The procedure isn’t finished.”

“ _Listen_ , Tschida. That’s the lieutenant general of the Third’s Flame Guard, not some kind of practice cadaver.”

Though Cyrus was reprimanding Eva, he was still staring at Mirk, drifting closer to his side of the operating table with each advancing step. Deliberately, Mirk put down the joining wand Eva had let him borrow, raising his hands and backing away from the table. “I’m so sorry, Monsieur! So sorry! I only…I want to help…make…do…” Mirk’s apologies turned into a mumbled stream of fractured French and English so confused that even he didn’t know what exactly he was trying to say. 

Eva remained unimpressed, her face an emotionless mask. “I’ll close him when I’m finished.”

“This isn’t a request.”

Finally, her calm façade budged, though all that escaped was a disapproving frown. “Your interruption is only prolonging the procedure. I will speak with you later. Comrade Commander.”

Mirk felt Cyrus’s magic brush across him, curling around one of his shoulders like he was about to use it to jerk him further away from the table. Before it could fully take hold of him, Cyrus spun on his heel and hurried out of the room, muttering under his breath. When the doors swung shut once more, blocking out Cyrus’s emotions and magic, Mirk allowed himself to slump over in relief, balling his fists at his sides to hide their shaking. “I’m…I’m sorry, Comrade Eva…”

The surgeon shook her head, finally setting aside her own joining wand. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“But Cyr—”

“That has nothing to do with you. Calm down, Mirk. If you’ll close, I’ll explain.”

Swallowing hard, Mirk returned to the patient’s side. His first few gestures were trembling and weak, but once he had reconnected with the warm yellow-green core of his magic in his center, his hands steadied enough for him to start properly drawing flesh back together, mending, connecting part to part, reassembling the whole. Mirk was glad that healing had begun to be more calming than it was stressful. Once he was fully focused on his task again, Eva began.

“Have you noticed it yet? Or have you been too busy to see it?”

Mirk bit his lip, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There is no need to apologize. I believe this was the plan, actually. Comrade Genesis rarely does things at random.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think. Other than myself, how many members of the Tenth have you worked with?”

“Ah…no one, not really, other than your nurses. But I thought that was normal. We all work opposite shifts.”

Eva sighed. “This wasn’t always the case.”

He chanced looking away from his work. Eva’s typically guarded expression had softened, her concern plain to be seen in how the focused light had vanished from her eyes, how her face took on the slackened contours of dismay. “What happened?”

“It started not long after I came to the K’maneda. Comrade Genesis had a disagreement with the last head of the Tenth. Really, with the whole of command. It ended in blood on all sides.”

“I’d never heard about that,” Mirk said, softly. He’d finished healing the delicate inner layers of the patient’s midsection, knitting together bit by bit the translucent film that separated the abdominal muscles from the slippery mess of the body’s innermost workings. 

“Cyril was Cyrus’s predecessor. Cousins, I believe. The details have never been explained openly, but if I understand the implications correctly, Cyril was responsible for causing K’aekniv and the rest some serious harm. Experimentation, improper use of bodies. Comrade Genesis took it personally.”

Mirk paused again before going any further on joining the muscles, laying his hands flat on the edge of the operating table. He hated these stories. But he felt obligated to listen, to understand. To see things as they were instead of as he wanted to see them. “He did?”

“No one saw anything happen, of course. He’s far too careful for that.” Eva reached across the patient’s body and began repairing the muscle for him, continuing before he could attempt to protest. “But there is no one else who could have ripped a body apart in such a way without a weapon.”

“…oh…”

“That was the start of it. Nearly the whole of command was dead within the week.”

He tried to push the images out of his head. Genesis standing at the head of his column of men, a wall of his shadowy, chaotic magic curling out of the night to divide him from them. An unnatural silence. Then cracking. Screaming. Mirk found himself gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn his fingers white. 

She must have felt his reaction. Eva gave him the mental equivalent of a pat on the shoulder, a faint, warm feeling of sympathy that flickered across the whole of his shielding. “It wasn’t only his doing. All the lowborns and Russians had a hand in it. In any case. Before Comrade Genesis could assemble enough mages and fighters to fill the gap left behind, Ravensdale and the highborn English had taken over things. The old nobility was replaced by the new. Ravensdale hasn’t forgotten how he happened to come into power.” 

“I do know that Genesis doesn’t like Alistair,” Mirk nodded. 

Eva snorted. “Yes, he does dislike him even more than he dislikes most commanders. I’m not one to gossip, as I’m certain you know, but this is the truth, not rumors. I believe his specific dislike of Ravensdale comes from the man’s treatment of a certain working woman.”

Mirk stared at Eva, unblinking. “Working…well, we all work, methinks…”

“A prostitute.”

Mirk laughed, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck before he happened to remember that his hands still had some blood smeared over them. Hazard of the job. He’d have to remember to wash it off before he left. “Really?” Mirk asked. “That’s more Niv’s kind of thing.”

“I am certain that his interest is unrelated to the kind of interest Comrade K’aekniv has in them,” Eva sighed, shaking her head. “She is a cunning woman. I believe she’s working at some kind of revolt.”

“Oh, that does make more sense,” Mirk said, a certain tension flowing out of his shoulders and stomach that he hadn’t been aware of until it was gone. Of _course_ Genesis wasn’t courting anyone. Mirk was certain he would have noticed. And it didn’t matter if he was, anyway. It was only that he’d be concerned if the commander started doing something as uncharacteristic as being friendly with other people. He could have had a head injury. Not that Mirk believed he was _completely_ incapable of the sentiment, but it all seemed too odd, too uncharacteristic, too upsetting in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

“Mirk.”

He coughed, dragging himself up out of his thoughts. The surgical suite was no place for woolgathering, even if he wasn’t the one doing surgery. “Ah, I’m sorry, what?”

“It is irrelevant,” Eva said. She was giving him a strange look, one Mirk wasn’t sure he liked. Eva could be very stern, and being scolded by her always made him feel silly and ashamed, even though she certainly didn’t mean to cause that kind of reaction. 

“ _Bien_ …it’s been a long day, methinks. I’m sorry.”

Eva nodded. She’d finished pulling together the first part of the abdominal muscles but was a good half hour away from having the mage completely healed. “You are over hours. This part of the procedure isn’t anything instructive. You may leave.”

Mirk could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks. “Oh, _pas du tout_ , I should be the one doing that, anyway, Comrade Eva, it’s not your—”

“That was not a request,” she interjected. But the faint smile on her face, the slight arch of her eyebrows made it clear enough to Mirk that she was teasing.

“Yes, Comrade Eva,” he said, performing one of the flashier bows he could remember offhand as he stepped back from the table, laughing. “J _e vous en prie._ ”

Mirk waited for Eva to wave him off, then scooted out into the hall that all the surgical suites branched off of, the hall that terminated near the field transporter. He was still unsure of how the transporter worked exactly—were there multiple transport portals set up near multiple battlefields? Were they movable? How did they keep enemies from making use of them or diverting them? That was a question for Genesis, Mirk supposed. But not that night; the nervous energy that had been keeping him alert and focused while he worked with Eva had already drained from him, leaving him exhausted and unable to do much more than point himself in the general direction of the infirmary’s main entrance and plod off toward it.

As he shuffled down the hall, Mirk found his mind wandering ahead of him, to thoughts of a warm cup of tea and robes that didn’t have vomit all over them and bed. Perhaps he’d force himself to take a bath first. Genesis tended to get annoyed by the smells that went along with healing, herbs and dirt and sweat. He’d rather not have the commander lying awake all night, being cross and refusing to acknowledge it. 

No, he’d much prefer it if Genesis was in one of his less stubborn moods, tired enough to settle in and at least pretend to go to sleep right away. Though it wasn’t bad when he sat up reading either. It felt domestic, somehow, in a way that he hadn’t experienced ever since he’d left home. It was comforting, knowing that Genesis was watching over him, one or both arms folding protectively around him as the commander fell asleep, his shadowy magic occasionally roused by his dreams and drifting about over the bed like smoke, dancing in swirls and spirals to the tune of some internal song Mirk couldn’t hear. 

He wondered what he dreamt about. Genesis said he could never remember his dreams.

Mirk was startled out of his thoughts by a sudden crackle of magic from off behind him. He’d turned the corner and made it a few yards away from the field transporter. He froze, hands clenching at his sides, for a moment considering running away and pretending that he hadn’t heard it engage. Then he heard groaning, the wet noise of blood on stone. Summoning the dregs of his healing energy, Mirk turned around.

One black-clad figure, a mage, judging by his baggy uniform and soft-soled shoes, had been propped against the wall to the right of the transporter. He was shivering and crying, one hand clamped tight over the shoulder of the other arm. That half of his uniform blouse had been burned off, the visible skin blistered and tinged the faint blue color of a magical burst injury. He lost his grip on his shoulder for a moment, eyes rolling back in his head, and his whole arm shifted downward at an impossible angle, blood flowing down it in rivulets. 

There was a pool of fluids at the mage’s feet. Most of it likely didn’t belong to him. Another man, tall and broad and muscular, his shirt nothing but rags, was dragging himself down the hall on his stomach with one arm. His other arm was wrapped tightly across his midsection in a vain attempt to keep his viscera from sliding out. After a moment, he lifted his head and cursed. Blood was running into his eyes from a cut on his forehead.

Mirk stared at him, motionless, unable to hear anything for a moment but the pounding of his heart in his ears. The man groaned again as he slumped back onto the floor, breaking the hold the scene had on Mirk. He rushed to the man’s side, having to use all his physical strength to push him over onto his back. Focusing in on his face for a moment, as he reached with one hand for the pulse on his neck and with the other for his wounded stomach, Mirk realized with a jolt that he recognized him. One of the Russians who’d been with him in France, the one who was responsible for wrangling K’aekniv back into order when he was drunk, who was unnaturally good at stealth tactics despite his size.

“Slava! Slava, what happened?”

He coughed, weakly, and though he spoke, Mirk couldn’t understand what he said. His translation charm had to have been blown off with the rest of his upper uniform. As the shock of finding the two men out in front of the transporter began to fade, it was replaced with the pounding force of their combined pain. He tried to shield against it, futilely, as he turned his attention to the wound in his stomach.

There was too much blood for him to be sure of anything, anything but the fact that the wound was long, and deep, and parts of him had fallen out of it and been shoved hastily back in. Reeling from the pain, he tried to find his voice to call out for help. But nothing would come out other than an ineffectual, weak cry, as darkness swam over his vision.

Then, as rapidly as it’d engulfed him, the pain cleared with the touch of someone else’s magic. Cool magic. Steady magic. Ordered magic. Eva had appeared and was kneeling on the infantryman’s other side, his head in both her hands as she spoke to him in a language Slava could understand. She said something that made him give a watery laugh. 

Gulping, Mirk tried again to find his voice. “He needs—”

“Already sent an aid,” she replied. With her magic shielding him from Slava’s pain, Mirk realized, she must have been able to feel his intent easily enough not to need to speak. But he was still cut off from her, through a shielding trick that he didn’t understand but could guess was very difficult and wouldn’t be maintainable. Eva was shaking, eyes intensely focused on Slava’s, not even leaving them as she dipped a hand quickly into the front pocket of the smock she wore over her robes, extracting a potion bottle and flipping it in Mirk’s direction. He caught it, reflexively. Pain blockers.

“Take it. You’ll be fine,” she said, anticipating his protests. He was already over the pain blocker limit for that day, had been stuck warding off the aching misery of patients since noon with nothing but the paltry aid of alcohol. It’d been a bad morning. Mirk considered protesting anyway, but decided against it. Eva wouldn’t be able to hold the shields over him much longer. And a delirious healer was slightly more useful than an unconscious one. Mirk uncorked the bottle and downed the bitter contents in one practiced motion.

The blockers felt like they claimed him even before he swallowed—high potency, or he’d just had too much of everything that evening and his mind was left tender and open and easily swayed. He shuddered. Then refocused down on the body before him, suddenly able to think again. The pain was a distant thing, something happening to someone else. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to be concerned over. 

Neither was the wound. It looked bad, true, but as the blockers took hold it was as if he could see all the structures that should have been there outlined in a cobweb of yellowy light, guidelines showing him how to make what was tangled and ruptured whole. Not a problem. Everything could be fixed. Mirk reached for his magic, for the warmth of life and energy of growing in his center. With the blockers casting their glow over everything, it was hard to tell how much he had left, how much he could take up and give away without touching that tight, inner core of energy that he’d been told he should never ever try to transfer, but it’d be all right, he was sure, there was plenty, there was nothing to worry—

When the anger hit him, it was like a punch in the gut, the beauty of the world dropping away into a terrible cold reality that was _hideous_. Mirk glanced up at its source. Cyrus. He’d been talking for some time. He was already well into a rant by the time Mirk was knocked out of his healing trance, glaring down at Eva with venom in his eyes. Eva was refusing to take her eyes off of Slava, She felt…afraid. Frowning, Mirk forced himself to actually listen to what Cyrus was saying.

“—look, I don’t _care_ who you think needs it most. I’m your superior and there are _priorities_. That mage needs fixing before he loses that arm, what’s the use of a mage with only one arm, for Christ’s sake? Be reasonable, woman. Come back to the brute when—”

“ _Cyrus_.”

Mirk was only half aware that it was him doing the talking. He probably shouldn’t have been talking in that state, or, at least, that was what the remaining sliver of his mind that was reasonable was thinking. But the rest of him couldn’t look beyond the fact that the man was making poor Eva, poor always-steady Eva, into a mess, and he was looking down at poor Slava, poor kind-hearted Slava, like he was some sort of insect that should have been swept into the trash, and he’d robbed him of the peaceful certainty, the beautiful clarity that came with blockers that he’d only just began to experience, and it all made him incredibly _upset_.

“You should leave her alone. _Now._ ”

He couldn’t help feeling self-satisfied as the commander, wide eyed, beat a hasty retreat off down the hall, cursing to himself. He must have sounded more authoritative than he usually did, Mirk thought to himself, as he turned back to the problem of Slava’s abdomen. Though he technically did see the strange, melted quality that the bit of floor Cyrus had been standing on had taken, along with the fractured, barbed fingers of stone that had risen up around it, he wrote it off as something entirely unrelated to the matter at hand. A smidge of his earlier contentment returned to him when Mirk saw that while he’d been distracted, all of Slava’s inner bits had been put back into place, though the wound was still gaping and bloody and raw.

“Oh, thank goodness, Eva, I was really…what? What is it?”

The surgeon was staring at him like he’d just sprouted horns. Mirk suddenly felt as if something important had happened and he’d missed it entirely. Maybe that was why they tried to never put him over the pain blocker limit. It seemed to him like the potion was making him a bit too air-headed to be useful. “Ah, is something wrong?” Mirk asked.

Before she could reply, a few things happened at once, too quickly for Mirk to keep track of well. A team of fresh night shift nurses was barreling up the hall with a stack of stretchers in hand. The transporter was crackling to life again. There was the faintest flare of pain from the direction of it. The mage who’d been propped against the wall had sunk onto his knees. 

“Stupid…accursed…”

Genesis stepped out of the transporter, its blue-white magic sparking and hissing off of his greatcoat. He’d been dragging along another mage, who seemed fine enough, save for something wrong with his legs that Mirk couldn’t quite put his finger on. Once he was fully through into the infirmary, Genesis dropped the mage—a shortish, well-built man whose ordered magic wasn’t taking well to being manhandled by Genesis’s chaotic sort—with an annoyed flick of his hand. In his other hand was one of the long, magicked flintlock rifles that the people from the Supply Corps were constantly trying to force on the commander. It looked like Genesis had been beating someone with it instead of using it in its intended fashion. 

“…works better…terrible…useless…”

Mirk struggled up onto his feet to make room for the nurses, who Eva was already shouting orders to as four of them strained to lift Slava’s bulk onto a stretcher. The other two nurses of the team, after setting aside a third stretcher, were making for the mage with the wounded arm and magic burns, pressed close up against the wall in an effort to avoid Genesis. Probably a good idea, Mirk thought to himself, distantly. He seemed to be in a mood. Mostly because of the rifle. 

“…waste of…magic…”

Mirk was pleased to realize that the glow was returning to the world, albeit to a weaker degree. Cyrus’s interruption must not have been enough to completely negate the effects of the blocker. There was another crack of magic from the transporter, a smell of ozone, as a gray-clad, masked fighter of some kind who was armed with a sword came stumbling through. With a hiss of frustration, Genesis took the rifle in both hands and swung it mercilessly down on the fighter’s head. Before he could fall, and before the pain of the blow could hit Mirk, Genesis shoved the man back through the transporter with a kick to the midsection that somehow came across as disdainful, as if the commander was worried that he’d get something nasty stuck to his boot if he did it too hard. After a moment’s deliberation, muttering something in his native language to himself, he chucked the ruined rifle through after him.

“Hmph. Modern weaponry indeed.” 

Shaking his head, Mirk turned back toward Eva, but found that she and the nurses had already hurried off with Slava to surgery, leaving only a coagulating puddle of blood in their wake. Which he was partially kneeling in. Sighing, Mirk tried to get to his feet without getting any more of it on himself. The other nurses hustled past him as he stood, the mage on the stretcher moaning and already begging for laudanum. Mirk tried to flag them down, offer his help, but they kept going. He looked after them and found the reason—Cyrus was some distance down the hall, refusing to come any closer to the transporter, waiting for the nurses to come to him instead. Another team, that time of three nurses, was heading up the hall behind him, presumably to collect the third mage. A good thing, since, now that he was standing, Mirk was beginning to feel woozy. 

“I…do hope…you intend on bathing.”

Genesis had finally noticed him, had cautiously approached him, though Mirk noted that he was making it a point to stand out of reach. Rather than looking at him, exactly, Genesis was staring at his bloodied robe.

“Oh. Well, if you insist, _messire_ ,” Mirk laughed. Now that he was looking at him head-on, Mirk saw that his left cheek was singed and oozing. That must have been why he’d been so annoyed at the rifle. Reflexively, Mirk stepped closer to him, lifting one hand. “Oh, your face…come here…”

Aghast, Genesis made a warding gesture at his hand. “No.”

“Don’t be stubborn, Gene—”

“You’re covered in… _things_.”

Mirk drew back his hand, blinking down at it. There was more than it on just blood, he noticed. Strange. He couldn’t remember putting his hands in anything else. “I suppose I am a mess,” Mirk mumbled, wiping his hands ineffectively on his dirty robes. Without prompting, Genesis snatched one handkerchief out of the never-ending supply in his greatcoat’s breast pocket, holding it out to him by its barest edge with only thumb and forefinger. Mirk reached for it, but after getting a second look at his hands, Genesis took it back.

“No. No, it needs…water…hot water…soap…” 

Still talking to himself about cleaning supplies under his breath, Genesis hurried off down the hall, ducking into the nearest open treatment room. Mirk followed, his steps wobbling, watching passively as the second team of nurses rushed off with the third mage, shouting at each other about crush injuries. He must have used too much of his energy helping Slava. At least the comforting warmth and golden haze of the potion had returned, no longer overwhelming but still leaving him calm and content despite everything that had been going on around him. By the time he got to the room Genesis had went in, the commander was waiting for him, damp cloth in hand.

“Oh, thank you—”

Again, Genesis cut off his attempts at taking the handkerchief. “No. I’ll…there’s a…process.” Drawing in a deep breath and holding it, he stooped down to his level, brandishing the handkerchief like a weapon. 

Genesis started with his face, his cheeks, on spots that he hadn’t seen but were doubtlessly there, considering the state of his hands. The handkerchief was warm, as fine as any noblewoman’s. Faintly scented. Like fresh lilies. Before they got strong and sickly sweet. It didn’t really surprise Mirk that Genesis carried his soap around with him, but it made him laugh nevertheless. “I’m honored, messire. Ruining a whole handkerchief, just for me…”

Frowning, he began dabbing away at his forehead. “Stop talking.”

He swallowed another laugh, doing his best to stand still. The potion was making it difficult. Aside from being dizzy from the potion, now he felt a strong compulsion to lean into his touch as well. It really must have been the strongest potion Eva had. Only the ones that they put the harsh mixtures of high-concentration opium and mushrooms and all sorts of other, unidentifiable off-realm things in had the enchanting ability to make pain distant but pleasure close. Usually they were only used in situations so dire that the dual effect was irrelevant. Eva must have been more frightened by the thought of Slava dying than Mirk had been able to feel. 

Which reminded him. “What happened? With Slava?” Mirk asked, trying to move as little as possible as he spoke. 

“The…mages got themselves…captured. Worthless individuals. I’ve told Keyn two dozen times that they…require advanced combat training, but no one listens. Inevitably.” Muttering to himself under his breath, satisfied with the state of his face, he considered the mess on his neck. “I should have refused. If they won’t train to protect themselves, the idiots…deserve to get killed. One Stanislav is…more useful than ten of them…” 

Mirk couldn’t keep the laugh in that time. Though, he didn’t try very hard at suppressing it. It covered up the gasp he made at the feel of Genesis wiping away at his neck, moving the handkerchief in curt, firm strokes. The commander was being entirely business-like. Proper. But it felt different, more like he imagined being petted felt like to a dog or a cat. Satisfying. 

It was nearly embarrassing. Nearly. It was too _nice_ for him to be properly embarrassed. It was like basking in the sun during summer and a hot drink and an embrace all at once. Intoxicating. It wasn’t worth ruining it by being embarrassed. Besides, it wasn’t as if Genesis knew how to read expressions properly anyway.

Genesis was still muttering to himself. He sounded annoyed. It detracted from things a bit, but, really, it made it seem less like a hallucination. Mirk couldn’t imagine the commander _not_ being annoyed by anything that involved dirt.

The commander stopped, straightening up and presenting him with the cloth. Mirk was alarmed by the fact that he had to bite down on his lip to keep a whine from escaping him at the absence of his touch. He was really beginning to understand now why only the topmost healers had the key to the cabinet where they kept the high-potency blockers. “Now. The rest of it.”

Sighing, Mirk took the handkerchief from him. “Yes, _messire_ …”

But Genesis was already gone. He’d retreated quick into the patient room, hitting the activation rune for the hot water tap in its corner with his elbow before hurriedly setting in on scrubbing his hands. Mirk wiped half-heartedly at his with the handkerchief, surprised to see that most of the gunk was coming off and staying off. The thing had to be spelled. It didn’t surprise him.

Mirk finished cleaning his hands long before Genesis finished with his. So he propped himself up against the doorframe and watched him, fighting against all the nonsense thoughts the blockers were putting into his head. Everything looked lovely. The floor looked lovely. The patient bed, which he knew for a fact to be hard and lumpy, looked lovely. Genesis, despite his determined grimace and the grim black uniform and the powder burn on his face, looked lovely. Ish. More like not so stern, cold. Mirk shook his head, trying to clear it before the commander could notice that he was staring at him.

He’d mostly succeeded by the time he was finished, having chased away some of the blockers’ effects by concentrating and counting the stone tiles on the floor. It’d been a futile endeavor. Genesis took one look at the handkerchief he was holding and destroyed it without even asking for it back. The feel of his staticky magic against his hands was like being brushed all up his arms with feathers. 

“Euh… _merci, messire_ …”

Genesis sidled out the door, plenty thin enough to get past him without touching him. “Don’t think that has absolved you from a…proper wash.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. _Messire._ ” Mirk stumbled after him down the hall, his legs distant and wobbly things that felt like they belonged to another person.

Genesis paused, waiting for him to catch up. Mirk tried to hurry, but it only made him dizzier. He pitched forward abruptly, having to reach out and take hold of Genesis’s arm to keep from falling flat on his face. The shock of it cleared his head again, enough that he felt like he was in his own body again. “I see…they’ve been feeding you blockers,” Genesis said.

“Eva told me to take it. I had to help Slava…” Mirk concentrated hard on the ground, trying to feel the stone through his clogs with each step.

“…right.”

“Sometimes you have to do hard things to help a friend.”

The commander refused to respond. But he didn’t peel him off his arm, didn’t walk too fast for him, didn’t ignore him when he got tippy and stumbled, steadying him instead. However, as promised, Genesis still bypassed his room once they got to the healers’ dormitory, promptly shutting him in the bath with a grumbled warning to be sure to wash under his fingernails. Or else.

Mirk leaned against the door that’d been closed behind him for a moment to reorient himself. The blockers were starting to wear off now, he was sure. He was feeling less euphoric and more exhausted. And he was somewhat annoyed that he was being forced to take a bath instead of being allowed to just go to sleep. No one else was in the room at such an absurd hour, instead putting the work off for the morning like any reasonable person would do. 

Sighing, he forced himself up and onward, past the sinks, toward the deep soaking tubs in the back of the communal bath. It was probably for the best, really. Mirk noted with a bit of dismay that the high-grade blockers had the same troublesome side-effect that the low-grades did as they wore off, though the lows only did it when too many were taken at once. They tended to make the user aroused. Something about excess empathic energy converted to physical energy and shunted quickly away from the brain in order to keep it from taking in too much pain as the blockers’ protective shield of herbs and magic faded. The human body was smart like that, sometimes. Smart, but completely blind to the unwritten rules of polite society.

Sort of like Genesis.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirk has another rough day. The World's Least Comforting Person is there to help.
> 
> Not much plot in this one, but I felt a need to get in a little bit more fluffiness before things get Exceptionally Difficult for Mirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Finals are over! That means it's time to get back to writing! Thanks so much for reading, everyone! <3

“No one has the right to look that cheerful this early in the morning.”

Mirk paused inside the doorway to the dormitory, looking back over his shoulder. Yule was dragging himself across the entry hall, eyes bleary with fatigue despite the strange, cat-who-ate-the-canary smirk on his face. He stepped aside and held the door open for him, offering him a sympathetic pat on the arm. “I’m sorry, Yule…at least we have days off soon? Maybe…”

The other healer snorted, throwing his cloak over one shoulder—once again, the weather was unusually warm, not a trace of autumn to be seen or felt anywhere. “Uh huh. Tell that to the bastards in command.”

Mirk followed along beside him, shrugging. “It’s no good worrying about things you can’t change, methinks.”

“Oh, that’s a good one. Please. Spare me the platitudes.”

He glanced over at Yule. The smirk was creeping wider. Mirk couldn’t decide whether to ask him straight out about what new bit of gossip he’d found out about, or to let it come up on its own. “Ah, sorry…”

“No need to apologize to me. I’m the one who should be feeling sorry for you.”

Apparently it was going to come out without his encouragement. “Oh?”

“I ran into a friend of yours in the baths this morning.”

“Yes?”

Yule seemed annoyed by how he wasn’t pressing him harder for details. “You know. Genesis.”

Mirk nodded. “That makes sense. He’s, euh, sort of…particular about things being clean.”

The smug look intensified as Yule leaned over close beside him, ducking his head a bit so that his whispering could be heard over the general chaos of the main street through the City at that hour of the morning. “I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“Why he hasn’t decided to be a complete ass to you, like he is to the rest of us.”

“That’s not his fault,” Mirk protested, trying to draw back. It was no use; before he could get even a step away, Yule had an arm wrapped tight about his shoulders, holding him in place. “Really. He just has problems with people.”

“Oh, most definitely. But, he’s got another reason, as far as you’re concerned.” Even though Yule’s shielding was fresh and strong, rejuvenated by sleep despite how tired the healer looked, Mirk could still feel his gleeful amusement through it. “I think he _fancies_ you.”

Mirk glanced over at him, puzzled. “ _Naturellement!_ He is my friend, after all.”

“No, not like _that_.”

“Ah, methinks you’ve lost me. I thought that word meant friendly…don’t tell me I’ve been using it wrong this whole time…”

He heaved an exasperated sigh, shaking him a bit. “No. Fancies! As in wants to court you and take you to bed.”

Though he tried to keep it in by biting his lip, he couldn’t contain the gales of laughter the thought of it elicited. Mirk could feel how this reaction perturbed Yule, but that didn’t help him better contain himself either. “Him! Oh, Yule, don’t be silly.”

“I’m not!”

“Just because he isn’t _mean_ to me doesn’t mean he has to _love_ me. You still don’t really understand him.” Though, to be honest, Mirk didn’t feel quite like he understood the commander all that well himself, half the time. 

“I never said anything about love! I was talking about sex!”

Mirk collapsed into laughter again, so much so that Yule practically had to carry him up the steps to the infirmary. Once he regained his feet, he waved Yule off, as he struggled to catch his breath. “Honestly, Yule, methinks even the thought of that sort of thing would make him ill. He can’t even cope with people breathing on him.”

Folding his arms, Yule glowered down at him. He didn’t find it very impressive—he was accustomed to being scowled at from both a greater height and at a greater intensity on a daily basis. “Mark my words, boy. The man is infatuated. Just you wait.”

Mirk pulled open the heavy front door to the infirmary, grinning back at Yule over one shoulder. “I’ll believe it when I see it for myself.”

\- - -

“One more left…ah, _c’est trop_ …”

He was trudging back to surgical recovery to fetch the last patient who needed to be moved to the general recovery ward, trying to stretch the soreness out of his arms, when it happened. Someone plowed into his side, sending him stumbling off down the hall that led from the transporter to the surgical suites. He barely managed to keep his feet.

“Oh…I’m sorry, Comrade…I just…”

It was the infantryman he’d treated on the night he’d found Genesis passed out in the road, the one who’d severed his arm below the elbow. He was wavering on his feet, eyes glassy, severed forearm once again clutched to his chest with his uninjured hand.

“Oh dear, not again! Here, let me help—”

A stream of blood had begun to trickle out of the corner of the infantryman’s delirious smile. He looked down at his severed arm, laughing at it. Mirk could feel his agony pressing at his shields, nearly hard enough to break through them. How could it be happening again? Slava had come in just two days ago, and yesterday there’d been a heavy rush of wounded from the front on the night shift, Fifth Infantry Division. The same division the man with the severed arm was from, now that Mirk thought of it.

“What an unlucky day…” the man gurgled, his severed forearm slipping from slackening fingers.

Before Mirk could rush over and prop him up, the infantryman collapsed, falling flat on his face with a crunch that made him wince back in pain. But he was moving toward him again, fast, once he saw that the arm injury wasn’t all that was wrong with the infantryman—his back was a skinned and bloody mess, muscles torn and bone visible, shards of metal buried deep into him in a line just beside his spine. Mirk’s stomach lurched, but he still knelt down beside him, reaching out to him with the smallest tendril of magic, knowing full well that if he wasn’t careful, the pain would get the better of him and knock him unconscious. He wasn’t on strong enough blockers to open himself up to the man far enough to begin to heal him.

“Comrade! Comrade, can you hear me?”

He didn’t respond. Distantly, he heard the crackle of the transporter spitting out another person. Mirk focused himself on the infantryman, reaching out to the life within him as best he could through his shields. There was the sound of gagging. Moaning. Staggering footsteps.

“It’ll be all right, Comrade, it’ll be fine, just hold on, just breathe, keep breathing…”

The infantryman’s body began to convulse. Mirk felt the warmth of his life brush against him, faintly, only for a second. Then it was gone and the man fell limp, motionless, in a spreading pool of blood. Frozen, he stared down at the mangled remains, trying to clamp down hard on his shields and failing, finding them coming apart at the edges from the force of his horror and the pain pressing at them from the outside. Though Mirk couldn’t make himself look up to see how badly injured those coming out of the transporter were, he could feel their amassed agony towering over him, a wave about to crash down and carry him away.

He stayed like that, motionless, unable to look up at the passing figures or the other healers rushing to help them, calling for aides and surgeons and life-supporters, until two nurses bodily picked him up, one under each arm. Potions, already uncorked, were being pressed into his hands. Pain blockers. Shaking his head, he came back to himself, though he was still trembling badly, downing both of the potions in seconds.

“Sorry, so sorry…where do you need me?”

The blockers weren’t strong enough. They took the edge off the pain lancing through his shielding, kept it from being sharp enough to stop him from stringing coherent thoughts together, but they did little to keep his body from responding. His legs were unsteady as he was led off to one of the surgical suites, but he kept enough of his focus to keep his hands from shaking too as his first patient was hauled onto the table before him. A blast injury like the infantryman that’d been left out in the hall, the patient’s uniform and skin seared off from neck to navel. A twist of metal lodged in the right lung, barely breathing—the blast had probably broken some ribs too; he could see the ends of two of them sticking out on the man’s left side. Head injury, but he could only do one thing at a time. The nurse to his right offered him another dose of pain blockers and he snatched it up before plunging into the barely-human gore.

He called to the metal of the fragment buried deep in his chest and slipped it out of him without doing any more damage, generating just enough flesh to keep the lung from collapsing further. But that didn’t keep his other lung from collapsing, didn’t stop the blood pouring from his ears. The man died. He was dragged aside and another replaced him. Leg severed at the knee, laceration that nicked the femoral artery. Not so bad. He was still groaning when he was hauled off. More blockers, more bodies. Fractured skulls, exposed and tangled innards, skin charred the distinctive blue-black color made by high-concentration magic attacks. He reached the blockers limit quick, was switched to laudanum. Its hallmark surge of relief and euphoria that cleared away the fog of pain that had fully cloaked his mind barely did him any good. The next casualty was entirely gone below the thighs. 

Why did they keep bringing them, the all-but-dead? Did they think they were miracle workers? Did they think he could summon unending life from within himself, pump it into a broken body and make it whole again? Maybe once, and even then, it wouldn’t save someone so far gone and the strain would leave him dead to the world for a week, perhaps forever, depending on how foolish he was with his innermost core of magic. Mirk tried not to think about it. He tried to focus and ignore everything but the anatomy, as he’d been taught to do. Ignore the pain wrapping so tight around his chest he could barely breathe, ignore the tears streaming down his face and keep his lip bit shut to stop himself from sobbing, ignore the fleeting images that slipped through his steadily degrading shielding, desperate longings for women with warm, oh-so-alive smiles, for the supportive hands of fathers and the comforting embraces of mothers, for children with outstretched arms and adoring eyes.

The laudanum limit came too soon. Then there was nothing but the faint distance and haziness of alcohol, which the senior healers had apparently determined he could process indefinitely without threat of injury, something about regeneration, plants, an earth mage’s metabolism. It didn’t matter. It barely helped. Still, he forced himself onward—healed one artery only to have the patient bleed out from another, saved one arm but lost both legs, squeezed the life back into a heart while a brain faded and died. Another. And another. Dead, dead, alive, but just barely, dead, alive, alive, but irreparably maimed. 

He felt the nurses who’d been supporting him the whole while finally begin to guide him back away from the table. But he didn’t let himself slip into the blissful silence of unconsciousness until he saw Commander Emir slide into his place, robes already saturated with blood up to his elbows. 

If Emir looked that bad, Mirk could only imagine what he looked like.

\- - -

Even though he was overwhelmingly, bone-achingly tired, Mirk couldn’t make himself fall asleep.

His mind was too busy for him to manage it, or perhaps it was just that the period he’d spent passed out that morning and afternoon had his body wanting to stay up later. He doubted it was the latter. As soon as he had come awake, he had been put to work picking away at the room full of patients who needed non-emergency healing, who could be put together with potions and thread instead without the use of his utterly depleted magic. Though his shielding had still been thin and wavering, and despite having nothing to dull the pain of the room full of the nearly-dead, as the alcohol had all been used by the mass of healers who’d responded to the wave of injured men, he tried his best to keep working, quick and efficient. He didn’t manage it very well. It felt like it took him an eternity to close wounds that should have been able to take care of in fifteen minutes. 

That wasn’t even the worst part of it. It was the concern of the other healers that ate at him. Mirk tried to keep his thoughts strictly on his work, but they kept slipping off onto other subjects, like the dozens of dying dreams he’d caught glimpses of and how useless he felt, passing out instead of summoning his strength and assisting the healers who had rotated in to replace the first responders. Every so often someone he knew—it didn’t seem to matter if he only knew them vaguely or if they were someone he’d consider a closer friend—would come up to him, put a supportive hand on his shoulder, and project sympathy at him, telling him things like how well he did for someone who’d been there such a short time, how everyone had a hard time tolerating the wave of wounded generated by a particularly nasty battle, how he had to be exhausted to begin with from all the casualties that’d trickled in from the end of the campaigning season over the past weeks. Mirk knew they meant well. He knew that he’d do the same thing, if he saw someone else as miserable as he was. But his head ached so badly and he felt so terrible about it all that their sympathy felt more like a slap in the face than a comforting embrace. If only they had shields strong enough to keep the sympathy in and leave him with just the embrace. Then it wouldn’t have made him feel so ashamed.

At present, the thing making him feel guiltiest was passing on Yule and K’aekniv’s invitation to the bar after dinner in favor of sulking in his room. They were trying to cheer him up, he knew. They wanted to help him forget, to distract him. But he also knew that the bar would be full of so much emotion that, even if the emotions weren’t negative, his head would be pounding so badly from the cacophony of them rattling around in his mind by the end of the night that it’d be a wonder if he could manage to get up before noon the next day. He couldn’t miss work. Not after a day like the one he’d just barely dragged himself through. They needed him. They needed him to try, to do better, to hold on despite his weakness and his knowledge of the body that was more instinctual than genuine, than learned and certain.

So, instead, he stared at the wall his bed was pushed up against and tried to not think about anything. An impossible task, really, but he felt he had to try. Mirk counted his breaths, holding each a bit longer than the last, hoping to calm himself. All it did was leave him feeling dizzy.

There was a barely audible click. In his preoccupation, he’d entirely forgotten about Genesis. It surprised him, but he’d come to realize it was actually easy to forget he was there, since he did everything so silently and quickly. He knew what Genesis had to be doing behind him—putting away his extensive collection of toiletries, meticulously straightening and checking each one—but he couldn’t hear him doing any of it. Though he hated to bother Genesis, he hated the thought of having to get up out of bed even more. Even lifting one arm and waving a hand to catch his attention was a trial. 

“Would you turn out the light? Please?”

He didn’t respond, but the light went out nevertheless.

“Thank you, _messire_.”

Again, no reply. He wasn’t expecting one. If the commander had started exchanging the common pleasantries of everyday social interaction with him, he’d be forced to heave himself out of bed and search him for head injuries. Though he didn’t hear him approaching either, Mirk moved over flush against the wall regardless. He tensed reflexively, pulling his ragged shielding up tight, but let it go once Genesis settled down beside him. All he could feel was the staticky hiss of his magic, and even that only if he made a point to focus on it.

It was cold against the wall. He hadn’t bothered to get under the covers; he’d been so exhausted that just getting into his nightclothes had been nearly too much for him. Most likely, it wouldn’t be much warmer under the blankets, as Genesis generated about as much heat as the wall did. But there was a certain comfort in hiding under a pile of blankets, using them as a shield against the harsh, unfeeling nature of the world when his emotions were raw and vulnerable. A small voice in the back of his mind said he didn’t deserve comfort. The rest of him was too desperate to take the voice seriously. He clawed his way under the quilts.

Mirk knew he should have left him alone. Genesis didn’t like people touching him. He didn’t like it when people were emotional. It always left him looking perplexed and distant, as if he was watching some sort of ritual he didn’t understand, one that he felt like he should have known regardless. Still, Mirk couldn’t keep the thought from jumping out at him—if one wanted the comfort of closeness without the pain of feelings, who better to go to than someone who felt like nothing at all, no matter what? The small voice snapped at him again: _forcing someone into comforting you? Pathetic. Desperate. Selfish._ Again, it didn’t restrain him. A few seconds later he found himself clinging to Genesis, wrapping his arms tight about his thin frame and burying his head against his chest.

Though he had been prepared for him to tense and try to extract himself from the embrace, Genesis was still. The same, unnatural-yet-comforting sort of still he always was—he was always the same, always almost cold enough to mistake for dead, always smelling faintly of the myriad poultices and potions he used to scrub everything impeccably, impossibly clean. No matter what sort of horrible accident he got himself into, or how close he’d let himself get to becoming a shattered wreck of what used to be a functioning body, every time Genesis came back exactly the same. As if nothing had happened. As if nothing would ever happen. 

Mirk suddenly felt incredibly foolish. Still, it wasn’t enough to make him apologize and let go. Though he knew he wouldn’t be able to come up with anything very sensible in his present state, Mirk tried to sort out something semi-coherent to say, to explain himself.

“I’m sorry, _messire_. It…” What? Was awful? Was horrendous? Was inhumane, was terrifying, was nonsensical, was cruel to the point of madness? He was certain the commander had seen things far worse than he had. “…I’m still not used to it yet…I suppose…”

Much to Mirk’s surprise, he replied. “It would…concern me more if you were.”

Was he humoring him? It didn’t seem likely. Genesis wasn’t one to put up with other people’s foibles. Not without some sort of derisive comment about them, at the very least. Perhaps he felt he had a responsibility to tolerate his, out of some misplaced sense of duty. Mirk sighed. “Still. It’s…I…I should be able to take care of myself, now.”

Genesis was silent. Just as Mirk was about to apologize again and let him go, the commander carefully worked one hand out from underneath Mirk and patted him on the back. Three times. Three mechanical, laboriously precise and calculated times, as if he expected him to crack into a million pieces if he did it wrong. 

It wasn’t nice. He _knew_ it wasn’t. He should have said something encouraging. Instead, he burst into laughter, unable to keep from thinking about how ridiculous it was that someone who didn’t hesitate to throw himself into fights that would have gotten anyone else killed would be so apprehensive about something as simple as a pat on the back. But, in a way, he supposed he shouldn’t have been expecting anything less from him—everything had to be exact with Genesis, perfect, even things that were meant to be organic and instinctual, like comforting someone. 

“…what?”

Though Mirk tried to stop, his tone of voice made him laugh harder: he sounded almost offended, bemused that his textbook response was anything but normal. The fact that Genesis started muttering to himself, crossly, in hisses and clicks, only made it worse.

“Oh…no, it’s all right, Gen…you just…you…” Mirk wanted to tell him that he was giving it his best, and that was really all that mattered to him, but the thought of his reaction to being told that set Mirk off again.

“I do not understand.”

With a few more gasps, he finally got a hold of himself. It wouldn’t do to have Genesis thinking he was doing something wrong. Otherwise he might never try to be friendly to anyone ever again. Genesis couldn’t stand being wrong, even about things he couldn’t be expected to know. “No, you understand, methinks. It’s just…it’s more like this.” He reached a hand over to his shoulder, rubbing it in the reassuring way that helped comfort others when a gentle touch of support wasn’t enough. 

“I…see.”

“You don’t have to be so…proper? Correct? _Sais pas_.” 

After a moment, Genesis moved his hand to his back again, repeating with almost eerie exactness the same motions Mirk had just made against the commander’s shoulder. It was fully correct, a perfect copy, which was what made him dissolve into laughter again. Genesis sighed, pulling away from him.

“No, no, you were right!”

“Then…why do you laugh?”

Because it was all hopelessly, incredibly endearing, in the odd way that only he could manage? Mirk supposed being that honest might be enough to send Genesis sulking off for the night. Which was the last thing he wanted: already he was feeling much more like himself, achy and tired, with the pain and doubt lurking just beneath the surface of his mind, still but not so lost, so hopeless. He settled for a half-truth. “You’re just being silly, that’s all.”

“…silly.” Genesis replied, flatly.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. You can’t really do it wrong. Honest, you don’t have to worry. It isn’t as if you’d hurt me, _messire_.” 

He didn’t respond. Mirk found it hard to believe that Genesis could be too shy to be nice to someone. Maybe he just didn’t believe that whatever he came up with wouldn’t be so incredibly off-base that it’d upset him. Mirk nudged him a bit with one knee, hoping to encourage him. “Go on.”

Cautiously, Genesis lifted his hand to the back of his head and began to stroke his hair, nearly too lightly to be felt. It wasn’t what Mirk had been expecting out of him. He’d anticipated something less familiar and more distant, collegial. Best not to tell Genesis that, lest he put him off the whole exercise altogether. It wasn’t as if he minded it, after all. Though how careful he was being did worry him some, like if he pressed too hard against him something terrible would happen. The worst that could happen was that he’d put him to sleep. “See? Nothing bad is going to happen. It isn’t such a terrible thing to be close now and then. Didn’t you ever have someone you were close to, before you came here?”

“No.”

Though Genesis didn’t sound upset about it, he found himself rubbing his shoulder again. As if companionship in the present could make up for a joyless, empty past. Of course, Genesis had never said that was what things had been like when he was young, but judging by how little he seemed to trust people, and how little he understood about how they behaved and related to one another, Mirk didn’t think his childhood could have been very pleasant. It was probably something terrible and cruel, something that would have seemed too awful to be real if it wasn’t for the marks it had left on him, something so severe it had to be like a punishment out of a children’s tale: abandoned in the woods and left to fend for himself, or locked in a cage in the dark in a cellar, or forced to slave away all night cleaning an enchanted palace while the evil king and queen slept peacefully upstairs. Only no hero had come to save him, probably. Knowing Genesis, he most likely had killed and magicked his way out himself, freeing himself, but also leaving himself just as alone as he had been before. No happy ending. “I’m sorry.”

“For…what?”

“It isn’t fair for anyone to have to live like that.”

“Fairness…is not an essential quality of existence.”

Mirk wanted to protest, to tell him that some things were just too unfair, too painful to be dealt with alone, but cut himself off with a yelp of surprise as something cold ran down the back of his neck at just the right place to make him shiver. Genesis immediately went tense. It had just been his hand, still dead cold despite having been under the blankets for some time.

“Oh, it’s all right, I just…I forget how cold you are, sometimes.” Reflexively, he reached for Genesis’s other hand, pressing it tight between both of his own in an attempt to warm it. He hoped the contact would be enough to convince him that he hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, Genesis was rigid and still. Mirk paused for a moment and looked up at him, smiling. The commander’s face was forcibly blank.

“I didn’t tell you I wanted you to stop.”

Grumbling, Genesis resumed stroking his hair. He’d been honest—despite his coldness, Mirk had no desire to have him draw away. His presence and touch was soothing, made his insides feel a bit wobbly in an odd way that he wasn’t quite familiar with. Mirk returned to working at his hand, rubbing at his long, delicate fingers. He had no idea how someone who did as much swordwork as Genesis did managed to keep his hands so perfectly pale and smooth. Off the top of his head, he could think of at least a dozen noblewomen who would have given up entire family estates to have skin like his. However, his fingers weren’t growing any warmer, for all his effort. Sighing, he tucked his hand between them in hopes of at least keeping it from getting colder.

As he settled back in against him, Mirk couldn’t help but notice that Genesis had begun to shake, almost imperceptibly. He turned his head a bit, resting the side of it on his chest, studying him. The commander didn’t look upset, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t.

“What is it?”

Genesis frowned, eyebrows arching. The yellowy glow from the magelight beneath his desk cast faint shadows across his face, softening his features along with the expression.

“You’re shaking.”

The commander glanced down at himself, thinking. “So…I am,” he said, slowly, as if he was as surprised by it as Mirk was. Mirk lifted a hand to his forehead. Cold, but normal. So was the side of his face. For a moment, he felt an instinctive urge to leave his hand there to warm him, but he supposed that would be pushing Genesis’s tolerance of physical contact too far for one night.

“You don’t have a fever. That’s strange.”

He lowered his hand, tucking his arm around him once more. It worried him a bit, but he couldn’t feel any pain escaping his magic either. Mirk tried to dismiss it by focusing on getting into a comfortable position, scooting up further against him, finding that certain place around his shoulder that wasn’t too bony, above the clavicle and close to his neck. Mirk had always thought Genesis would find this too intrusive, but he’d tolerated it thus far, never commenting on it. It really was the only position that worked—if he tried to rest his head further out along his shoulder, he knew full well he’d just wake up with a perfect replica of his uppermost shoulder joint indented into the side of his face. Being closer also made him feel better. Especially when Genesis decided to put an arm around him in turn instead of just lying flat and still like some sort of poorly designed humanoid pillow. The commander felt less tense, but was still shaking.

“You should go to sleep, Genesis.”

“It is not that simple.”

“I know. But it doesn’t hurt to try.” Not that he had to put any effort into it—he’d been exhausted to begin with, and now that he’d managed to put the lingering pain of that morning’s events somewhat out of mind, he was fading fast. “Just close your eyes…and think of…better things…”

Better things. Like a warm blanket, like a soft bed, and a friend to share the both of them with. A friend who warded off the guilt and the suffering simply by being himself: not exactly warm and open, but, more importantly, unwavering, unchanging despite all the horrible things that could possibly happen to him, yet still full of hidden eccentricities that meant being around him was never quite as dull as it should have been. Though Genesis’s dourness never externally lifted, Mirk also liked to think that he at least wasn’t a completely terrible companion to have either.

It was a silly train of thought, one that was certainly more imagined than real, but Mirk felt entitled to a few pleasant thoughts after such a trying day.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirk makes a deal that may make him feel a little less disheartened.
> 
> Short chapter, for once! Next should be up tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Over 100 hits! Daaaaaaaang~ 0___0 I'll have to see if I can write up something special for all of you, my wonderful and incredibly persistent readers. <3

“Oh, look. _Seigneur_ Avignon has finally decided to get out of bed and join the rest of us peasants.”

Mirk skidded into the common room buried at the center of the non-critical wing of the infirmary at a run, nearly sliding into the empty liquor cabinet at the back of the room in his hurry to get to Yule’s side. Mirk was already bowing and waving his apologies before he came to a complete halt.

“I’m sorry! Really, I am, I just…I, well, the alarm wasn’t set, and I was so tired and…I’m so very sorry, Yule, what can I do? What needs to be done? I’ll—”

“How many times have I told you not to listen to this ass?” Danu cut in, smacking Yule, who was laughing into his sleeve, hard in the ribs. “It’s all right, Mirk. There’s not much going on. Just leftovers from yesterday. Besides, everyone oversleeps once in a while. At least you’re not late because you were out being a menace, like certain people are when they get stupid drunk.”

“Yes, we all know that ugly gnome of an infantryman you’ve taken a shine to is a worthless drunk, but everyone has—”

“Don’t hurt him, Danu,” Mirk said, still gasping for breath. “He’s…probably just tired…from yesterday…”

Reluctantly, Danu stopped elbowing Yule in the kidneys, despite how the other healer was still laughing. “You’re no fun.”

“Why are you late, anyway?” Yule asked, after he’d managed to stop laughing and had set in on rubbing at his side instead. “It isn’t like you. Something interesting happen?”

Mirk shook his head, fixing a smile on his face that he hoped didn’t look terribly rigid. “Oh, it was nothing really, I just didn’t set my alarm right. Thankfully the man from Supply Corps came by with my suit from the Nasiris at nine, otherwise methinks I might have missed the whole day…”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, at least. He _hadn’t_ set his alarm right. He hadn’t been setting it at all, not since Genesis had been staying with him. The commander operated like clockwork, and every day he made his tea exactly at eight, which was exactly when he needed to get up. But that morning there’d been no tea and no Genesis. The top drawer of his dresser that he’d been letting him use was empty. There was no note. It upset him, but he was trying to ignore it. That was just the way Genesis was; it probably didn’t even occur to him that he’d wonder where he’d gone or what had happened to him. It made no sense to be upset. But, still, there was a certain aching in the pit of his stomach, like someone had been punching at it all through the night.

His shielding must not have recovered as much as he’d hoped. Yule and Danu exchanged a skeptical look. However, before they could pelt him with questions, Sheila appeared in the common room door, rapping on its frame. She was hunched over on herself, pale almost to the point of translucence and looking withered, somehow. It always took her a few days to recover from draining most of her lifeblood into patients hovering between life and death. 

“Exam five, Yule,” she called out, a ghost of a smile crossing her near-white lips. “Job for you. Well. Maybe you should take the rest of them with you. Back up.”

Groaning, leaning hard on the table, Yule dragged himself to his feet. “Really? I swear, if it’s another one of those drippy idiots who’ve gone and thrown themselves out their window in the middle of the night, I’m going to finish the job for him. I’m not wasting two hours stitching.”

Yule continued to mutter grim scenarios to himself as he trudged off to the exam room, Mirk and Danu following at a judicious distance. When the healer got to the door, he let out a scathing string of expletives, searching through his sleeves in vain for something to throw at its occupant. Mirk edged up close enough to see around the doorframe. Genesis, about as unenthused as Yule was, but less vocal about it, was examining the ewer of water on the exam room’s supply cupboard. One of his arms was hanging useless at his side, bleeding and mostly likely dislocated. Its hand looked like it’d been slammed in a door multiple times.

“Oh! Genesis! It’s all right, Yule, I’ll do this. Methinks it’s only fair since I was late.”

“You’d have to do a lot worse to merit that,” Yule said, flatly, already rolling up his sleeves in preparation. A feeling of suspicion was leaking from the other healer’s still-strained shielding, along with a frustrated anger. Mirk failed to see what was causing either.

The suspicion was mutual—Genesis backed away from the supply cupboard and took up a position as far from Yule as he could manage. Instinctively, he went to cross his arms, annoyed by the fact that one of them refused to obey him.

Mirk wedged himself past Yule and into the exam room, sliding between them, dipping his head apologetically as he gestured at the other healer to leave. “Honest! It’ll be all right, I got extra sleep, _non_? You should go back to resting.”

Grumbling, Yule pulled down his sleeves, but didn’t leave the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and watching the both of them critically. Trying to put him out of mind, he waved Genesis toward the exam table. “Go on, _messire_ , I’m sure you’re busy. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your assignments.”

“Yeah, he must be pretty busy. Couldn’t even be bothered to wake you up for work.” Yule commented, idly, examining his fingernails.

Though Mirk could feel himself flushing, he tried to ignore him, instead focusing on Genesis who, with great reluctance, had sat down on the exam table. The hand would be the best place to start. If his body started to heal his broken fingers, there was no telling how many times they’d have to break them again to get the bones back into the right positions. 

The commander, on the other hand, was disinclined to ignore Yule. “A…pressing matter arose.”

“Did it?” he replied, voice laced with enough sarcasm to make Mirk wince.

“Yes.”

“It’s really no bother, Genesis, I just forgot to set the clock, that’s all. _C’est pas grave_.” Mirk was grateful that Yule was too focused on Genesis to read him, that Genesis was too bad at discerning the meaning of expressions to sense any of his dismay either. It didn’t make sense, Mirk thought, to be upset by such a small thing, a mere oversight. He should have been happy for him. Doubtlessly, he’d feel much better in a space of his own rather than trying to cram himself into his undersized room. 

“Tell me, comrade, exactly what sort of _pressing matter_ was important enough not to get the poor boy out of bed on time, hmm?” Yule drawled, disdain painfully obvious.

Genesis was twitching in annoyance. It made it difficult to examine his broken hand without hurting him. But if this bothered Genesis, he made no indication of it. “If I had not…responded immediately, the room would have been gone. As it was, I…still was required to…negotiate for it. As should be evident.”

“Oh! You found somewhere to stay, _messire_? How sensational! Methinks you’ve earned it, really, _non_?” Which was true enough, Mirk thought. But he couldn’t help but be a bit concerned—Genesis might have been able to handle campaigns and plots flawlessly, but it had become increasingly evident to him that Genesis completely lacked the ability to look after himself in any practical fashion. 

Genesis gave him a sour look; he’d complained again and again about the sensational business. Mirk had gotten too accustomed to the phrase to eliminate it entirely from his vocabulary. “That’s besides the point.”

“The point being?” Yule interjected.

The sour look faded into a blank one, one that seemed quite deliberate. “I…have imposed myself on you…greatly for…much longer than I had…anticipated. Thus, I am…in your debt.”

Mirk laughed, as he healed one of the fingers that hadn’t already started to set itself in the wrong position, with a flicker of yellow green magic that made the shadows under the table curl ominously about his legs. He ignored them. The less afraid of them one was, he’d found, the less likely they were to try something. “ _De rien, de rein_ …really, it was no trouble.”

“Regardless. I…am in your debt.”

“No, honest, it’s fine!”

Genesis heaved a sigh. “You must…understand. Once a debt has been offered...it cannot be refused. It is one of the Five Laws. How you feel on the matter is irrelevant.”

“Oh…” Mirk turned this over in his head, trying to think of something he could do to get rid of it quickly. But what was there that Genesis could do for him that was different from all that he already did? He cleared his mind by focusing back in on his hand, hoping that an idea might float up into it out of his subconscious. 

He’d almost gotten the last of his fingers straightened out when a thought came to him. Though he’d tried to hurry that morning, he couldn’t help but take a look at how the suit had turned out. It was impeccably sewn and tailored to the latest fashion of the season; he’d expected nothing less from the Nasiri twins. He’d look lordly enough in it, he supposed, but he still doubted it would make much of an impression. Who was he but a fool who’d happened to rise to the head of his house out of naught but sheer unfortunate coincidence? Madame Beaumont had been adamant on the issue of making a show of force, proving from the start that he was to be respected, not laughed at. But what could he possibly do to make them respect him? He was no proud, stoic master of men and land, no Courtly advisor of any importance or knight of the realm; he was nothing but a doctor, and a barely trained one at that…

Something she had said came back to him, as he magicked Genesis’s crushed ring finger back into shape: _Just because one decides to do things themselves doesn’t mean that a good friend doesn’t have their place in the scheme of things as well._

As he watched Genesis clench his healed hand, experimentally, his smile began to turn more genuine. True, he wouldn’t like it. Wouldn’t like it _at all_. But if he was going to insist on being indebted to him…

“Now that I think of it, _messire_ , methinks there might be a small something you could help me with.”

Genesis was too occupied with testing his reflexes to look up at him. “Yes?”

“Madame Beaumont—you remember me mentioning she’s come up for the season, _non_? She’s holding a ball this Friday, and, you know, it’s terribly rude to not come with a guest when the hostess has insisted that you do…”

Slowly, Genesis looked up. He’d expected him to look cross. Instead, he was making one of his jumbled expressions Mirk could never decode, some odd combination of mortification and embarrassment and malice. “I…see.”

“You do still have some of the clothes we had made for you, don’t you?”

“I believe…I burned the lot of them.”

Mirk tisked at him, waving a scolding finger in his direction. “Those were very expensive, you know. Sir Mahdi spent a long time tailoring them.”

“This does not concern me.”

“But you can’t go without something proper to wear! Hmm, they should still have your measurements, though I’ll have to pay extra for them to put a rush on it, and your complexion makes it so difficult to find colors that work without trying them on first, but some things can’t be—”

Genesis raised his newly healed hand, stopping his rambling. His expression had gone blank again. “Perhaps I could…propose a compromise?”

“Oh?”

“Though…Ravensdale removed me from the Seventh’s command, I…did keep the dress uniform that went with the position. I believe that should…be sufficiently proper for the occasion.” Genesis spat out the last two words like they left a sick taste in his mouth.

Tapping a finger on his pursed lips, Mirk thought it over. He’d seen plenty of nobles of high rank in the King’s army wearing their uniforms to balls. Though he doubted the K’maneda uniform would be as ornate as the King’s, it would have to be at least somewhat decent. It’d definitely be black, but that could work to his advantage. Genesis looked imposing enough in his regular uniform; in the dress version, he might very well look absolutely terrifying.

“I suppose…but only if you’ll consider your debt resolved, after this.”

“And then some,” he replied, deadpan.

“Good!” Mirk chirped, clapping his hands. “Well. We’ll talk it over later. First, we need to take care of that cut…methinks I’ll need extra regeneration potion for that one…if you’d excuse me for a moment, _messire_ , I’ll be right back with it.”

Mirk was surprised to find Yule still lurking in the doorway when he turned around, his prior annoyance having morphed into a smug sort of grin. Danu, at least, had been sensible enough to go see to some other task instead of hanging about and eavesdropping. Mirk tried to get past him unmolested, but the healer followed him out, draping an arm across his shoulders as they headed for the supply room.

“Well well…maybe it isn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe you’re right.”

“Euh…right?”

“He’s just a social failure.”

“He…well, he tries, at least?”

“But I’ve made up my mind, boy. I’m positively convinced. There will be no more doubting on my part, no matter how much of an ass that bastard is.”

Mirk didn’t like the direction the conversation was headed in. “Convinced of what?”

“You, my poor, innocent friend, have got yourself an admirer.” 

He didn’t know how his body managed it—physiologically speaking, it should have been impossible for one’s face to go from composed to bright red all over in less than a second. Mirk never had to see it to know it’d happened. It made him hot enough to nearly start sweating. “ _Yule!_ ”

“Oh, complain all you like, Mirk, but it’ll change nothing. There’s no way in hell that man would submit to being dragged around a party if he wasn’t dead set on you.”

“It’s not nice to tease people, you know,” Mirk huffed, as he tried to wedge his way out of his grip to get at the supply room door. Yule held fast.

“I’m just saying. You’d best be on your guard. Unless, of course, you know…”

“No.”

“We here in the Twentieth do have a nasty habit of corrupting youth.”

“Stop being silly and help with the door. Please.”

With a drawn out sigh, Yule finally released him, instead dropping into a theatrical bow. “Yes, _Seigneur_. Your wish is my command.”

Mirk didn’t care for that line of needling much either but, overall, he found it much less confusing and worrisome than the other had been.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirk lays the smack down. Well. Accidentally. And not very hard. And feels really terrible about it. Also: empaths are completely lost when it comes to understanding someone without their emotions to go off of, apparently. Or Mirk's in denial.
> 
> ...he's probably in denial.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone! If you like this story (and you don't mind not-really-spoilers), you should check out the other piece I'm working on right now, [Perplexities of Human Relations](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6888358/chapters/15715078), which is a little one-off about Mirk and Gen after they get a handle on the whole "feelings" business. There's excitement! Romance! Awkward attempts at being seductive! Seeing the world from Gen's warped point of view! So go take a look, if you're so inclined. ^__^

Mirk eyed the extensive collection of warding and barrier spells affixed to the doorframe—most of them he’d never seen before; he had a feeling they’d give him a headache if he stared at them too long—and, cautiously, reached out a hand to knock. Before his knuckles could make contact, the door swung open a few inches, hinges groaning.

“Oh…dear…”

He nudged the door the rest of the way open, not yet stepping inside. The room beyond was large, or perhaps that was only an illusion created by how empty and dim it was, illuminated by a single magelight on the ceiling by the door. There were no tables, no chairs, no rugs, no mementos or any of the other extraneous bits of clutter created by everyday living. Instead, there were shelves marching along the left-hand wall, all of them full. An uninviting padded bench was pushed up tight against the wall opposite the door like an afterthought. The other wall was empty, save for another heavily magicked door, so thoroughly covered with protective symbols that the surface of it seemed to be crawling. Mirk tried to put it out of mind as he entered, fixing a smile on his face before calling out.

“ _Messire_? Are you here?”

There was no reply. However, as if in response to a phantom breeze, the door slammed shut behind him, making him jump and squeak in surprise, clutching his bag to his chest. 

“I…do apologize. It seems not to have…taken to heart its manners lessons as of yet. And do leave your shoes by the door. I have…finally managed to clean the floor properly.”

One moment he’d been alone in the room, the next Genesis was there, sliding a book back onto one of the shelves as if he’d been standing there the whole while. Had he? Mirk thought he would have noticed him even if he’d been lurking about in one of the more shadowy corners of the room. Then again, the commander had been acting rather odd as of late. Mirk couldn’t tell if it was sullenness over being tricked into attending Madame Beaumont’s ball or something else entirely. Either way, he seemed to be trying to avoid him, but was having an uncharacteristically hard time with it. If he wanted to eliminate all risk of bumping into him, the sensible thing to do, in Mirk’s opinion, was for him to vanish entirely for a few days. Rather than leaving, Genesis had taken to secreting himself in what he assumed the commander thought to be unobtrusive places, ones that were invariably within clear sight of places Mirk happened to frequent. It wasn’t like him to make mistakes like that. Maybe the fact that he had just now been able to sneak up on him was a good sign rather than an ominous one.

Mirk worked his feet out of the clog-like shoes that went with the healers’ uniform, careful not to let them get off the mat he hadn’t noticed he’d been standing on. He still hadn’t sorted out why Genesis was so particular about shoes touching certain things, but if he asked him to explain, the convoluted chain of reasoning behind it stood a good chance of consuming the better part of his evening. “Oh, it’s all right. Though I hope I’m not getting in the way of anything more important you had to do.”

Genesis was still studying the bookshelves as if he wasn’t there. “It would be…imprudent of me to complain over you deciding to…make good use of your free time without being bribed.”

Mirk laughed. “Sometimes miracles do happen.”

Genesis finally glanced in his direction. The slight, predictable frown he gave him was as reassuring as the scornful comment had been. “I believe you know my position on…that manner of papist superstition.”

“Well, yes. But it’s not a miracle anyway.” Though he’d been trying to keep his mind off the reason he’d came, it was inevitable he’d begin to dwell on it—he’d been worrying about Laurent Montigny ever since Madame Beaumont told him that he’d be attending the ball. The man was a notorious dueler; he had the facial scar, which he flaunted without reservation, to prove it. If the first ball of any given season didn’t lead to him dueling someone in the back garden, the whole affair was considered an utter failure. Considering recent events, Mirk had a feeling it would be him on the other side of his blade that year should Montigny catch sight of him. “I could use the practice.”

The commander shot him a skeptical look. “Are you…considering challenging someone to a fight?”

“Oh, no. The other way around, _messire_.”

This comment was enough to get Genesis’s full attention, the imperceptibly askew shelves of books forgotten. “I fail to see any logical reason for that.”

“It’s about family, not about me personally,” Mirk said, waving him off, hiding his apprehension behind a breezy shrug. “Everyone has to fight a duel for their family’s honor now and then.”

Mirk couldn’t tell whether Genesis was concerned or extremely annoyed. “That is…entirely nonsensical.”

“Don’t K’maneda fight over honor all the time?”

“We are not so foolish as…to do it facing one another at an appointed hour like idiots while some…gadabout counts off time. In any case. If you wish to prepare for such an eventuality, you have chosen the appropriate course of action.” Genesis made a vague gesture out at the mostly empty room. “Is…this space sufficient?”

Mirk nodded. “It’s smaller than the practice hall, but methinks it might be nice not to have to worry about the trainees getting in the way.” The last time they’d sparred there had been a mob of children occupying the rest of the hall doing throwing dagger practice. It had been distracting, Mirk would admit, but it ended much worse for the poor boy whose knife had veered off target and had put a rip in Genesis’s shirtsleeve than it had for them. 

The commander looked the room over with a dissatisfied air, scuffing at some manner of invisible imperfection in the floor with one of his bare feet. “I have attempted…to make it larger, however, this building’s magic is much more resilient than that of the infantrymen’s quarters. Original…stonework from off-realm.”

“Off-realm?” Mirk knew that the City of Glass wasn’t exactly located anywhere in specific—it moved, supposedly, though where it moved to or from was still a mystery to him—but he hadn’t known that it wasn’t even built on Earth.

Genesis shook his head, sighing. “It is a complex matter.” With a terse gesture at one of the room’s gloomy corners, his sword appeared in his hand, shadows still clinging to its blade. “It would be…prudent to remain focused on the present subject.”

Mirk searched for somewhere unobtrusive to put his bag down, settling on the end of the bench-like piece of furniture. He had to dig around in it in order to find his grandfather’s staff—no, his staff now, his weapon—but he eventually located it. It had gotten tangled up in a knot of unrolled bandages. Shaking them off, he tapped it against one palm a few times, coaxing it back to quarterstaff length.

He’d been surprised when Genesis had told him he was going to teach him to fight. He’d been even more surprised when, instead of forcing him to use one of the heavy, cumbersome swords his father and Captain Aei had tried so hard to get him to master, Genesis had told him to fetch the staff instead. No one had ever told him it was possible for someone with a staff to make any headway against an attacker with a sword—his instructors had always insinuated that a staff could only be used to buy time, time until someone who was actually _useful_ came along. The commander had agreed with the others on one point: if the aim of the fight was to kill one’s opponent outright, a sword was generally more useful. However, in Mirk’s case, killing was never and could never be the main aim of any fight. That left using the staff for incapacitation, which, Genesis argued, would serve him far better than a sword would. 

At least, it would if he could ever even manage to land a blow. With Genesis as an opponent, the task was proving to be impossible.

Setting the staff aside against the bench, Mirk sat down on the floor and began to work the residual stiffness of a day spent hunched over broken bodies from his limbs. Genesis ignored him, twirling the hilt of his sword around his wrist, catching it perfectly every time, though the action seemed to be more of an absentminded fiddling on his part rather than a conscious exercise. The sword was the stuff of nightmares. It was only a foot or so shorter than Mirk himself was, so sharp that its blade seemed to blur into nothingness at its edge. Worse still, it looked to be able to flicker in and out of existence either wholly or in sections—logically, it should have been impractical, if not impossible for Genesis to draw the blade from his back, but it was capable of passing through its scabbard at will. Or, even worse, it could simply appear in his hand without him ever having to touch it. Mirk often wondered if Genesis actually wielded the sword or if they were two independent entities who happened to have the same goal in mind. When Genesis exhausted his magic, the sword seemed to transition into a normal object, suggesting there was at least some connection between them, in any case.

“ _Alors_ …do you like it here, _messire_?”

Genesis glanced down at him only for a moment, instantly returning his attention to the sword. “It…has its merits.”

Mirk considered this as he stretched his arms out over his legs as far as he could reach. The commander really was acting odd—usually when he ignored someone it was as absolute and instinctual as breathing. Mirk got the sense that, at present, he had to actively concentrate on it. Since attempting to read his emotions was useless, he tried to think of a good way to try to pry the truth out of him.

“It’s only that I worry about you, all alone. I don’t mean to be rude, but methinks you might do better with someone to keep you company.”

Again, a sideways glance that lasted only a fraction of a second as Mirk switched to stretching out his arms. “I…am fine.”

“Are you, though? I may just be imagining things, but you’ve seemed a little bit out of sorts lately. Has something bad happened?”

“No.”

“It isn’t the ball, is it? I didn’t mean to force you into something awful, _messire_ , it was just the only thing I could think of. Really, you don’t have to atten—”

“No.” As if it was physically painful, he forced himself to look down at him. “Regardless, once one has…offered their assistance, withdrawing it…is rather cowardly.”

Though he knew Genesis couldn’t feel it, it was impossible for him not to project reassurance along with the smile he flashed him. “As long as you’re sure.”

Genesis gave a dismissive nod, turning his attention back to the sword. Mirk rolled to his feet, cracking his knuckles. Maybe a bit of sparring would be enough to knock Genesis out of his odd mood—if there was one thing he enjoyed, it was correcting another person’s errors, and Mirk was certain he’d make plenty. He retrieved his staff and edged into his range of vision, waving at him to catch his attention.

“ _Tiens, allons-y_?”

The commander gave him a sour look, catching his sword one last time. “As…you will.”

Genesis never attacked first. It was supposed to be some manner of assertiveness exercise, Mirk supposed, or perhaps it was meant to give him a leg up, though it never did. No matter how clever he thought he was, his blow was always neatly dodged. That time was no different—he knew he had to be getting better at feinting, but his quick shift from an upward thrust to a side sweep was knocked away effortlessly. Before he could reorient himself, he felt a tap on his upper shoulder, a move that would have been a slice that could cut off his arm turned at the last possible moment into nothing but a faint pat with the flat of his sword. They were only seconds in, and already Genesis had gotten a hit. Mirk could never tell whether the taps were meant to be scolding, mocking, or merely instructional. He had to be annoyed with him and his silly mistakes by now. If that was the case, however, there was no indication of it. Genesis was impassive as ever as he lowered the sword and stepped back a pace, gesturing at him to try again.

So he did. Again. And again. 

He was warding the blows off now, at least, though he couldn’t get many of his own in besides. Every time he started to get the hang of things, started to plan his own attack, Genesis would increase his speed and manage to catch him off guard, tapping him on the side, shoulder, neck, head, “killing” him twenty times over. Mirk gritted his teeth and forced himself onward, straining to increase his speed to match. How was he supposed to defend against someone who was capable of moving from spot to spot without ever seeming to have to cross through the space between? No one could do that, inhuman or otherwise. At least not physically.

The thought stuck him so suddenly he got pushed off balance, only saving himself by turning his trip into a roll at the last moment, one that thankfully sent him well out of the sword’s range. If Genesis wasn’t _actually_ moving, that meant he had to be doing it with some kind of magic. Sucking in a deep breath, he threw himself back into the fray, this time watching for Genesis’s movements with his mind instead of his eyes. Genesis didn’t project, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t sort out where his magic was. Instead of searching for a feeling of energy, he searched for nothingness, spots where the barely audible murmuring of the wood floor, the stone walls, was blocked off. 

Even though he still only made his blocks by the barest of margins, Mirk was beginning to get a sense of where he was headed, gradually edging toward the point where defense could be shifted into offense. Watching his movements visually became more distracting than helpful, dividing his attention so that half of him was still straining to read his muscle movements while the other half followed the advancing edge of his magic. Mirk didn’t know whether what he had in mind would help or whether he was being too optimistic about his abilities, but what was the harm in trying? Focusing entirely on his senses, he closed his eyes.

It was disorienting at first. He could tell where everything was, trusting his magical senses alone to guide him. Still, he was panicking inside, logic pleading with him to open his eyes. It all reminded him of the few abysmal times Captain Aei had tried to encourage him to fly by picking him up and soaring around a bit, dangling him what felt like miles above the ground. He’d swoop him up over the manor’s gables and skim him over the tops of trees until Mirk got so terrified that he relented and set him back down. It _felt_ like he should have been failing at keeping Genesis at bay, just like it had _felt_ like he was falling, despite knowing full well that Captain Aei could fly a full-grown man from Nantes to Tours without trouble. But when he raised his staff to block he could hear the clack of metal on wood to match what he saw with his mind’s eye, the reassuring glow of the staff of life banging into a nothingness that had separated from its main source and lashed out at him. Gradually, he allowed himself to relax and concentrate fully on reading Genesis’s magic.

It didn’t move instantly, not like Genesis himself seemed to. The nothingness would fade left and right, forward and back, moving out in two directions first before settling on a definite path. That explained how he always dodged him no matter how well he feinted—he had two avenues of retreat open and could slide down either one more quickly than Mirk could swing at him. He made an attempt at a feint at one of the two routes again, this time using the first motion only as a way to gain momentum and swing in the direction he now knew Genesis would be dodging in. 

Crack.

Mirk was knocked out of his thoughts by a sharp flare of pain, yelping and falling over backwards as a wave of dizziness overtook him, disorientation from shifting back into the visible world. When he was finally able to get himself focused again, he saw that Genesis was setting down his sword, propping it against the far wall of the room, hissing curses at himself under his breath. 

“I’m so sorry, _messire_!” he blurted out as she scrambled to his feet, leaving his staff on the floor. “I just…I…I’ve never…I can’t believe…”

“Congratulations,” Genesis snorted, as he prodded himself experimentally in the side. Although his expression remained blank, another bolt of pain escaped through his staticky magic.

Mirk winced. “I didn’t mean to—”

Genesis waved him off, shaking his head. “It…is of little importance. Rather…do attempt to control your force the next time.”

Mirk cautiously approached him—he wasn’t afraid of Genesis lashing out at him, rather, he was uncertain of whether the shadows would take kindly to him having hit their master. They remained lurking in their corners, albeit a bit restlessly, as he drew over to his side. “May I help you?”

Genesis took a step away from him. “I require no aid.”

Mirk eyed the spot where the pain was coming from. If it was sharp enough to escape through Genesis’s magic, he had to have at least broken one rib, more likely two or three. “Those really need to be mended…”

“I will…manage.”

“I know you will, but methinks you won’t be happy when they have to be rebroken. Don’t you remember what happened the last time you ignored a broken rib?”

Genesis frowned. The broken rib, rather than healing cleanly back together, had started to knit itself in strange and contorted shapes, breaking other ribs as it went along, sprouting sharp edges. He ignored the pain and breathing trouble this caused him until he was too dizzy from lack of oxygen to work. The mass of tangled bone was so far removed from its normal state that they’d had to cut multiple ribs entirely out of him, regrow new ones in potion solution, and then fuse them in back with the rest. The procedure took nearly four hours of constant attention and magical support. Mirk could distinctly remember waking up on the floor of his room after that operation, having been too tired to actually make it into bed, instead sleeping for a full ten hours curled up under his desk. “I believe…that was a unique situation.”

Sensing that the commander was digging in for a protracted argument, Mirk summoned the most concerned expression he could. Not that he wasn’t concerned—he felt nauseous from the guilt of having hit him—he’d just found that unless one made their expressions exaggerated Genesis was not likely to notice them. “Yes. This time may be worse. That was only one. This could be two, or three, and there’s no way to tell what else is wrong if you don’t at least let me look at it.”

Genesis didn’t reply, no longer looking pained, instead staring blankly and determinedly away from him. Mirk took hold of his elbow, trying to draw his attention.

“Please, _messire_ , if you’re too angry to let me help, at least go to the infirmary and have it looked at. You were hurt so badly last time…”

Sighing, Genesis turned away from the nothing he’d been staring into, blank façade cracking in favor of a tired sort of expression, somewhere between guilt and resignation. Which was worrying, Mirk thought, as he couldn’t recall Genesis ever having looked guilty over something in all the time that he’d known the commander. “I am…not angry. Rather, I only think it’s not worth…bothering with.”

“ _Mais non!_ Please, let me help you. It’s only right, since I’m the one who did it.”

The concern must have finally gotten the better of him. Grumbling, Genesis crossed over to the bench and sat down, stiffly. Though he wasn’t purposefully moving it, his side still sent off sparks of pain with each step he took. Mirk worried at his lip, following close behind him. He must have hit him even harder than he had thought. 

“Let’s see…” Mirk sat down beside him, nudging aside his arm to get at his ribs, only stopping to really think about what he was doing when Genesis scooted instantly out of his reach the moment he went to pull up his shirt so that he could examine the injury. Mirk looked up, questioning. “What is it?”

Genesis said nothing, but continued to eye him warily.

He should have known that the struggle to get him healed wasn’t concluded yet. Typically, Genesis was either too ill to fuss over being undressed or the injury was severe enough for there not to be much of a garment left around it. Mirk crossed his arms again, returning the commander’s sideways looks with an unwavering stare. “You know, it’s hard to heal something if you won’t even let me look at it.”

“I believe…you are capable of managing it by feel instead.”

“ _Ouais, mais—_ ”

“As, if you weren’t, you could not…have hit me to begin with.”

Mirk huffed, digging around in his head for a retort that might have some impact on him. “Methinks it’s a little silly for you to be embarrassed about it, _messire_.”

That got him to turn and glare at him, at least. “I am not…embarrassed.”

“There isn’t any reason to be. I’ve seen it before, after all.”

Aghast, Genesis edged further away from him.

“Who do you think they make dress you when you come in all cut to pieces, hmm? Anyone else who tries just gets thrown against the ceiling.”

“That’s…not the point.”

“ _Non?_ ”

His expression went blank as he thought—he could always tell he was debating something with himself because he’d dismiss the entire outside world for a time, everything about him going flat save for his eyes, which flickered back and forth like he was reading something no one else could see. Mirk was about to apologize and do his best fixing him without being able to see the wound, out of fear of him sulking off without any healing at all otherwise, when he blinked, hard, focusing back in on him. “The point…is that I find the whole of this tedious. However, as it’s…evident you’re determined to do something whether I find it necessary or not…I suppose…compliance would…expedite the matter.”

Mirk couldn’t keep from laughing. “You’re acting as if I’m going to do something awful to you.”

“One never knows,” he sighed, looking quite miserable as he set in on unbuttoning his shirt.

It was incredibly strange, Mirk thought, that someone who was mortified by the thought of undressing would go about without a coat on. He considered telling the commander that, in the opinion of most of polite society, he dressed so scandalously it was almost as bad as wearing nothing at all, but decided it’d be best not to agitate him further. Besides, everything he wore struck him as odd—the Moorish costume he slept in, a doublet that was so long and loose and out of style that it might actually be back in fashion in a few years, Oriental-looking shirts that clashed awkwardly with absolutely any outfit. Not that the other K’maneda were much better, but at least they wore colors sometimes. 

It took Genesis far less time to undo all the tiny buttons than it did him—he’d oftentimes get sick of them and just snap them off, knowing Genesis would probably throw away the bloodied or torn shirt anyway. He untucked it, pausing, the unfamiliar, almost guilty look crossing his face again. But what was there to be guilty about? Perhaps he really was misreading him. It could be some other emotion that Genesis rarely expressed, something that had an entirely different meaning to him than it did to the rest of them. 

The expression wasn’t there long enough for him to consider it further; he was back to looking blank, as usual, as he slipped out of the shirt, folding it with meticulous care before setting it aside. He really had hit him harder than he thought. Genesis’s side had turned a sickly purple, the bruise spreading far afield of where the actual broken ribs had to be. Gingerly, he reached out to touch him, brushing his fingers over his ribcage until he found out which bones were broken. Two ribs, the fourth and the fifth, both only fractured once, close to their angles.

“Hmm, methinks it shouldn’t take too long to fix them, _messire_. They’re very clean breaks.”

“How…fortunate.”

The sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on Mirk, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he went straight to repairing the bones, or, at least, he tried to. The injury was at an awkward angle, making it hard for him to rest his palms flat on it without contorting himself into a distracting, hunched over position. Sighing, he got back to his feet. He had a few options on how to proceed, true, but if Genesis was going to be upset by all of them, Mirk didn’t see any reason not to choose the most effective one.

“…what?” Genesis asked, huddling protectively in on himself. It made his ribs grind against each other, made Mirk wince.

“You’re not going to like this.”

“This?”

Mirk usually wouldn’t have thought himself quick enough to duck around Genesis’s inhuman reflexes, but the commander had a tendency to freeze up when completely blindsided, a tendency that Mirk felt a bit bad about taking advantage of. Mirk sat down close against his uninjured side, wrapping his arms around him so that his hands ended up on his broken bones, firm, but not hard enough to hurt. Not that Genesis would complain if it did—as Mirk had predicted, he went tense, the shadows snapping up into a ready position around them.

“I’m sorry, _messire_.”

Genesis didn’t respond.

“Besides, methinks you should be used to this by now.” Which was really what was concerning him—Genesis had gone from grudgingly accepting human contact to being completely mortified by it overnight. 

“I…it…” Whatever came after this dissolved into hissing; Mirk didn’t know whether Genesis was aware of it or not.

“Did I do something wrong?”

It had been eating at him ever since the morning he’d woken up and found that Genesis had disappeared without a trace. Did he really just forget to mention that he was leaving? Had he been planning it but hadn’t remembered to tell him? Or had he done something offensive, something hurtful, committed some non-verbal _faux pas_ that had made the commander decide any sort of friendly contact with him was to be avoided at all costs? Mirk couldn’t think of anything he’d done that would constitute an insult. It all would have been much easier if he could tell what Genesis was feeling, not to mention knowing the basics of whatever extinct code of etiquette he followed. 

“No,” Genesis responded, with a heavy sigh, just as Mirk was about to start apologizing again. 

Mirk didn’t want to ask the question. He estimated that the odds of the answer making him dejected and overemotional, leading to him only upsetting Genesis even more, were much greater than the odds of it relieving his now near-perpetual worry. Delaying the pain, though, never made it hurt any less. “Then what is it?”

Again, an agonizing pause. Mirk knew better than to look up at him; it would only make it harder for him to come up with something to say. Instead, he began to feel mentally for the edges of the broken bones, not yet summoning up the magic to heal them, only tuning in his racing mind to the staticky mental touch of Genesis’s magic, the peculiar structure and rhythms of his body. Its familiarity calmed him some. Though his behavior toward him had taken an inexplicable turn, his shadow and form were exactly the same as they always had been. He’d never be able to tell what he was feeling, true, but he’d always know how he _felt_ , know where cartilage transitioned to bone and how his blood worked its way slowly from his heart to capillaries spread out in fractal patterns that made no sense until looked at from just the right angle.

“I find…new environs…distinctly unnerving, regardless of…who initiated the change. It has a…tendency to make one suspicious. Instinctively. It is…not a conscious decision. It renders one a touch…exhausted. Unable to…discern the proper…mechanisms of acceptable…social reactions. For which…I apologize.”

A wave of relief washed over Mirk, making him let out a breath he’d been holding unconsciously and allowing him to lean against Genesis’s side as he’d wanted to from the beginning, the flush that rose to his face made more obvious to Mirk by the cold skin it rested beside. “Oh…I’m sorry, Genesis. I didn’t mean to be any trouble. It’s just that I worry about you.”

“You…worry. About…me.” It wasn’t a question, but the confusion was there, evident in the way he seemed to have trouble putting the words together, as if they made sense by themselves but lost their meaning once they were said one after another.

“ _Bien sûr!_ I can’t tell what you’re thinking, you know.”

“I do not...see why that would be of any interest.”

“It means I can’t tell if I’ve hurt you or not.” Mirk paused, tugging the energy up from his core, the life force that, at the moment, felt never-ending rather than tapped dry. Genesis had relaxed enough that he wouldn’t heal his bones together at the wrong angles. “You do know that I wouldn’t ever want to hurt you, _non_? Though I suppose that breaking your ribs doesn’t make it seem that way…”

Genesis made a low hissing noise, something like a bad imitation of a laugh, one that fortunately didn’t involve much inhaling or exhaling. “I regret to inform you…that I doubt you are…capable of inflicting much damage. Presently.”

“Broken bones aren’t very nice, even if you think they don’t hurt much.”

“I would…be more concerned if you’d been able to accomplish that when I was…fighting at full speed.”

Mirk wilted a bit. He should have known better than to think that he’d _actually_ managed to keep up with him. “How far away am I?”

“I believe that was close to half speed.”

“Oh…”

“Right-handed half-speed, to be precise.”

“Right-handed?” He hadn’t even ever thought to take much notice of which of his hands was the dominant one—he broke the both of them continuously, at least, which made it hard to tell. 

“One would be…well-advised to develop some measure of proficiency with both hands.”

“All right…” Not that he ever could do much of anything left-handed. Not that he could ever move fast enough to keep up with Genesis, but that wasn’t very important. The knowledge that he was so far away from being a competent fighter wasn’t enough to dispel his cheer at being wrong about Genesis’s moodiness. And even if he was terrible at sparring, at least there was always healing. Mirk knew he could meld the bones together well enough without drawing on his own life force, but he felt guilty enough about having hurt him that he thought it only right to heal him as best he could. “I’m glad you’re not upset,” he added, suspecting that even if Genesis was looking at him, he couldn’t tell from his expression how thankful he was.

He hadn’t been expecting Genesis to respond. After all, he was silent the ten minutes it took to heal his broken ribs, the bones knitting together smoothly, leaving Mirk with only the bruise to attend to. Just as he’d begun to rub the blood out of the tissue it had seeped into, allowing his magic to find the tiny, damaged capillaries and venules and fuse them shut, he felt Genesis shift in his hold. He’d been expecting another of his awkward, exact pats on the shoulder, but what he got instead was an awkward, exact attempt at ruffling his hair. The commander couldn’t bring himself to brush his hair out of order, however, turning the gesture into more of a single pat on the crown of his head, his hand remaining there, like he was uncertain of what more he was supposed to do with it.

It was strange, Mirk would admit. It was only half right—he must have observed that Danu and K’aekniv ruffled his hair when they wanted to make him feel better or reassure him, but hadn’t quite understood or remembered the intricacies of how to do it himself. But it was also perfect at the same time, a mundane act of offhand closeness turned by his precise and deliberate nature into something heavy with feeling and care. The weight of his hand, the feel of his cold fingertips on his forehead made him feel special, somehow. Valued. If anyone else had found themselves in that position, Mirk thought, it would probably mean they were about to have their head crushed. The mere fact that it meant something else in that moment, that the hand that so often brought nothing but death and pain was instead being used to comfort, to calm, made the single touch more meaningful to him than a dozen embraces. 

Genesis treated everything in his life as if it was ephemeral, as if every bit of togetherness was just the start of losing touch. But he was holding onto him, even though he didn’t quite know how, and he wasn’t letting go.

Laughter, as usual, wasn’t the best response, but it leaked out of him anyway as he finally let himself look up at him. Genesis didn’t lift his hand, letting it move along with him, expression carefully blank. “That’s not quite how you do that, _messire_.” Before he could misconstrue him and snatch his hand off his head, Mirk added, “but methinks I like your version better.”

Though he didn’t back away, he didn’t seem very reassured either. “I…see.”

Mirk doubted there was anything he could say to Genesis that would make him feel more at ease. He decided to let the matter drop, hoping that Genesis might be able to deduce, somehow, that the fact that he leaned his head against him again as he returned to rubbing away the bruise meant that he didn’t mind that his way of doing things was never the same as anyone else’s. That he found his attempts at being close all the more genuine because of their backwardness. 

The last bit might have been a bit beyond Genesis’s rudimentary understanding of social nuance, but it was there nevertheless. He must have at least understood that he wasn’t offended; Genesis didn’t position himself carefully as far away as possible from him once he decided to take his hand off of him. It reassured Mirk that his odd behavior over the past days hadn’t been intentional. It reinforced his certainty that whatever odd sort of partiality Genesis had for him hadn’t disappeared.

Something still felt a bit off, though Mirk couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Nothing major, of course, but something had still changed enough for him to notice it, even if it was only subconsciously. Mirk drew in a deep breath and focused himself hard on the mechanics of his healing, clearing his mind of everything else.

He didn’t notice it until he’d magicked away the last of the bruising. With his body fully restored, the aberration became obvious: his pulse and breathing were off, were more rapid than they should have been. Mirk hadn’t seen it earlier because that was the logical, normal response most bodies had to pain. Genesis never responded to an injury that way. His body slowed instead, all his internal processes dropping off to a near-complete halt, the pain managed by his body to refusing to acknowledge that it was even there. 

Biting his lip, Mirk compared Genesis’s pulse to his own, counting the heartbeats. It was supposed to be one beat to three of his own heartbeats, his own pulse, which he knew wasn’t that far off normal, but that was positively racing in comparison to the commander’s. Genesis’s pulse wasn’t that elevated—not three to one, but two and a half, perhaps, to one—but it still struck Mirk as significant. The workings of Genesis’s body, though they were illogical and technically impossible half the time, never changed.

Or did they?

Or was there something else wrong, was something else out of balance, had a process that had never gone wrong before triggered the change? There had to be some logical explanation, Mirk thought. Not logical in and of itself, but logical in the context of all his other convoluted systems. Whatever it was, he couldn’t see or feel it. He debated asking Genesis what had changed, what felt different, but decided against it. The elevation wasn’t harmful per se, just different. And as long as whatever it was didn’t hurt him, Mirk saw no point in bothering him about it. Mirk let Genesis go. He was pleased to hear him mutter some manner of dark comment to himself as he snatched up his shirt and hurriedly rebuttoned it. That was normal. That made sense.

Mirk could see no sense in upsetting what had just been made right again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirk finally dips a toe back into the waters of magical high society...with Genesis grudgingly in tow. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! I'm glad for it. ^__^

“Half seven…it has to be half seven…”

Mirk knew worrying over the time was foolish. He’d checked the invitation again and again that morning—six was the appointed hour, but _everyone_ knew that six meant seven at the earliest. Really, the more fashionable mages, he was certain, wouldn’t dare arrive before eight, but Mirk had never thought being fashionable was a good excuse for being rude and, besides, better to be early than either caught in the rush or conspicuously late. He peered up through the fog at the distant church clock tower, barely able to make out the time through the haze. Not quite fifteen past. Sighing, he drew his cloak tight around his shoulders and settled in to wait.

It was impossible for him to not be early when he was nervous. Though he was sure it wouldn’t take him more than an hour to get ready, even if he included the time it’d take to convince his hair not to look slept on, he had still reported in at the infirmary an hour early so that he could slip out at four rather than five. Though he was sure the walk from the healers’ dormitory to the west gate couldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, even if he plodded along at the slowest pace possible, he’d still set out over a half hour early. Which was why he was stuck waiting. Miserably, nervously waiting. It didn’t help that the transportation spell on the gate, which spat one out at the edge of the well-to-do district of London that the magical nobility favored, always made him feel a bit queasy. He was unsure of where the City of Glass was actually situated, but he had a feeling that the west gate was the one that threw travelers furthest from its real location. The south gate never made him feel so sick, in any case. Or maybe it was just that whenever he found himself leaving by the west gate it was always for the purpose of going somewhere he dreaded. 

He didn’t even have the excuse of not wanting to keep Genesis waiting to blame for his earliness. The commander, when asked to arrive at a certain time, invariably appeared _exactly_ at the agreed upon hour, not a second early or late. Mirk wasn’t sure how he did it, unless he somehow knew the precise time it took him to go from one place to another. He wouldn’t put it past him. Besides, he supposed it was easier to be on time when one could step through one shadow and out into another, arriving immediately at one’s chosen destination without having to go through the trouble of transportation spells or something as mundane and tedious as walking. 

Sniffling a bit because of the damp, Mirk searched out the church tower again. The clock hadn’t moved at all. Maybe one minute, maybe two. Lost on how else to occupy himself, he began to tug again at the sleeves of his new justacorps. It was cut perfectly, of course. He’d been sure to retake his measurements and send them along with his order, not that they’d changed at all since he’d last taken them. Much to everyone’s dismay, he’d stopped growing at sixteen, ending up only a hand’s width taller than his mother and falling far short of his father’s towering height. Privately, he’d been glad—he didn’t know what he would have done with himself if he’d ended up being so outsized and bulky, leagues away from the ground and well out of reach of anyone who wasn’t some sort of half-breed—but he’d faked disappointment for the sake of his tutors and his father. It wasn’t _right_ for an angelic heir to look so human, even if he was a half-breed. It wasn’t _proper_. Another item on the list of things he’d failed to achieve.

Mirk knew it wasn’t going to help him any to start brooding about the past again. But how could he avoid it? Surrounded by the K’maneda, it was easy to forget everything. No one expected him to be some sort of lord; the idea didn’t cross anyone’s mind. He was just another healer, unremarkable, little better than a trainee, easily overlooked. Even the people who knew where he came from didn’t presume that he would eventually become something more than he already was. After months away from the pressure, being thrust back into it sent him into a near panic. Everyone in those circles knew what he was supposed to be. They’d known Jean-Luc, they’d known his father and mother, they’d known uncle Marc. In comparison to them he was a fluke, a curiosity, a mistake, something to gossip over and shake one’s head at. He could hear their murmurs in the back of his head, though no one would dare say anything to his face— _it’s a pity, isn’t it, to see such a family reduced to that? How unfortunate that all Jean-Luc’s work had to come to nothing, how tragic that they were all cut down, how pathetic. It hurts to watch that awkward, leftover boy trying to pick up the pieces._

But he had to do something. For Henri, for his cousins, he had to do _something_. They had lost everything because of him. It was only right for him to sacrifice all that he could to lift them back up. Mirk feared that he didn’t have nearly enough to give to get back even half of what he’d torn away. There was his magic, as useless as that was. There was the staff, which he didn’t know how to make good use of. And there was the K’maneda, but that really counted more as a detriment than a benefit when it came to rebuilding one’s reputation. It made him feel ill to think of having to explain himself to Henri and the others, he couldn’t even begin to find words fit to describe his regret, his—

“Though I believe this isn’t the most…specious of neighborhoods, I feel you would still be well advised not to…woolgather and ignore the possibility of being robbed. Even more so when…dressed as such. Mirk.”

Yelping, Mirk whirled about to face Genesis, tripping over a loose cobblestone and nearly throwing himself flat on his face in the process. The only thing that saved him was the commander reaching out a hand, quicker than thought, and catching him by one shoulder. As Mirk tried to bury his embarrassment under awkward laughter, Genesis pushed him back upright, unable to keep himself from plucking some invisible piece of lint from his cloak before drawing his hand back. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, _messire_ , really, I didn’t mean to be any trouble, methinks I just get, euh, lost sometimes, and…ah…well.”

His conciliatory gibbering petered out as he fully processed the sight before him. Genesis so rarely wore anything other than his standard, all-black, unadorned uniform and greatcoat that when he did it always left him a bit dumbstruck. Not that the dress uniform wasn’t black—it was somehow even darker than what he usually wore, some strange form of ultra-black that actively sucked in the dim light of the streetlamps and extinguished it. Or perhaps that was an illusion created by its silver trim, which lined all the edges of its coat, from its lower hem that fell somewhere between proper doublet and justacorps length, up to its high mandarin collar by way of an offset placket that closed the coat in a crisp line three-quarters of the way across its front. All of its adornments were also silver: the buttons, the collection of campaign medals arranged in perfectly even rows, the various rank and specialization insignia on collar, epaulettes, and sleeves, the divisional patches. The tall riding boots were the same, though their buckles were fine rather than flat and dull, shined to a high gloss, laced with tight precision, trousers tucked in to their tops. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about the uniform that made it so striking. Maybe it was the tailoring, his typical strictly utilitarian style put aside in favor of a streamlined and imposing silhouette that made his thin frame more lithe than skeletal. Or it could be the stark contrast between it and what everyone else wore to those sort of parties, the uniform all clean, long lines whereas the fashion was for everything to be lace and frills that blended into the ornate décor of high-society ballrooms and parlors. It was a bit gauche, to be certain, but distinctive in a way that invited the eye to linger. On what, exactly, remained a mystery to him…

“…yes?”

Coughing, Mirk broke off his staring, hoping that his sudden flush would be hidden by the gloom. “Nothing! Er…nothing. Really.”

He must not have been very convincing. Even Genesis could tell that he was bluffing, shooting him a critical look that made the flush worse, made him shiver. “Is this mode of dress not…adequate?”

“Oh, no! No, it’s fine. It’s only a little odd seeing you wear something different, _messire_.” 

Genesis didn’t reply, but the suspicion remained. Mirk stumbled off in the direction of Madame Beaumont’s winter town house, digging his fingernails into his palms in the hope that the pain would help him regain his focus. He searched for a topic of conversation, finding the eerie silence with which Genesis trailed after him too unnerving to bear at the moment. “ _Alors…_ ”

For once, the commander came up with something before he did. “Do you find this odd because…you have your servants send you new finery for each occasion?” 

Mirk smoothed the front of his justacorps, shrugging. “It’s only because tonight is important. Methinks it wouldn’t make a good impression to come in something everyone has seen before. It would make everyone think I’d lost all the family money. And I do like this season’s color.” Last year’s had been a brilliant orange that gave his skin an awful tint, completely unwearable. This year’s was a new shade called French lilac that he’d heard everyone was wearing whether it looked good on them or not. Some sort of patriotism, he imagined. Regardless of where it’d come from, he’d been pleased to find it suited him well—it matched his eyes in the same way that the pale lilac suit his mother had always forced on his father when attending mixed mortal and mage balls had matched his. His father had hated the thing (something about the fabric making the skin between his wings itch), though his sullenness over being crammed into it wasn’t enough to keep him from looking particularly stately. Mirk liked to think that the new suit at least made him look less frazzled: a closed coat with only a slight vertical pattern, shorter and tailored more closely than usual, giving the illusion of more height. Not the trendiest cut, but the long, flared coats with bell sleeves that had become the predominant style as of late made him look like he was drowning in velour and brocade.

“I fail to see…what the year has to do with colors.”

Mirk was saved from having to search out a way to explain it to him by the appearance of Madame Beaumont’s London house from around the next bend in the road. Every corner of its wide facade was illuminated, either by lamp or magelight, the faint strains of strings and piano echoing down the street. Judging by the style and size of the carriages lined up to access the turnaround in front of the house, they’d arrived too late to avoid the rush. “Oh dear…it looks like people have come earlier than I thought they would.”

“I believe…you said this affair was to take place at half seven.”

“Well…in a way, I suppose.” Mirk stopped a distance away from the house and its crowded entrance, instinctively edging toward the shadows cast by the tall trees obscuring the house beside Madame Beaumont’s from view. If he squinted, he could see the place in the distance where all the carriages were coming from, some sort of temporary transporter, no doubt. It had always struck him as silly to apparate somewhere in a carriage. Then again, he supposed transport spells didn’t make other people as ill as they did him.

“In a way?”

“Everyone has rules that are a little different. I’ve never been here for the winter mages’ season. Methinks I should have asked Madame Beaumont about that…” It took a moment for the convoluted language of family crests and colors to come back to him—the carriage second from the front of the line was covered with elaborate ornamentation and decked in bright orange livery, its charge a large raven. New money. If he made his appearance just before those guests, he’d be likely not to offend anyone too important.

“One would think a time to be the…same, regardless of location.”

Mirk drew himself up as best he could, forcing himself back out into the glow of the streetlamps. “It’s not important, _messire_. Everything will be fine.” He was well aware of the fact that he was mostly trying to reassure himself rather than assuage any fear of Genesis’s, but tried to ignore it, just as he was trying his hardest to keep himself from caving in and taking the staff out of his pocket, using it as a sort of shield: _you know what this can do, stay away, keep back_. His grandfather had always carried it around in an absent manner, like an out-of-style walking stick, its presence made all the more powerful by how casual he was with it. Mirk wasn’t going to mimic him. Not out of disrespect or a lack of love, but because he felt ashamed trying to claim in any way that he was at all as fearless and strong as Jean-Luc had been. 

“Will…it?”

Glancing back at him, Mirk made himself smile as he beckoned him to follow along. The commander looked like he was on his way to the gallows. Yet, despite his unflinching frown and tightly crossed arms, Mirk still felt a spark of optimism flare in him when he trained his disapproving, narrowed eyes on him. Logic said it was because if anything disastrous happened, Genesis would be the best person to have on hand to deal with it. His emotions said something else, but he was too anxious to make out what the warm, light feeling was, exactly, other than better than being petrified. “ _On y va!_ ” 

Grumbling and muttering, Genesis trailed after him as he continued on down the street as casually as possible, projecting the cheerful and unconcerned air that his mother had worked so hard to cultivate in him. As he came closer to the house, he could make out who’d just gotten out of the first carriage in line, a tall, stocky man with a striking head of red hair, a woman as cool and reserved as he was bright and jolly on his elbow. Rory Masson, a distinguished earth mage who’d managed to inherit double the strength of his parents, though he’d inherited his foreign-born mother’s loud personality rather than his father’s poise, the woman beside him the Taubert family’s oldest daughter, Désirée, an air mage who specialized in the intricacies of weather divination and creation. Mirk picked up his pace, some of his artificial ease becoming more genuine. He’d always liked the Massons. He could remember a much younger but still giant Rory entertaining him as a child by making members of the family’s legendary collection of Classical statues creep up on _Seigneur_ Masson when he wasn’t paying attention. It’d have probably earned him a beating, had both their mothers not found the trick so hysterical. There was no risk of Rory getting cross at him if he ended up coming in too close behind them. 

It had begun to drizzle. Mirk was tempted to huddle down deeper in his cloak. The night had turned cold since he’d left the City of Glass, the earth feeling weak and wobbly beneath his feet. He couldn’t be certain whether the trembling was a bout of nerves or the first signs of incoming autumn. An image of himself freezing solid in the midst of a shocked crowd of lords and ladies flashed through his head, unbidden. It distracted him so badly that he almost strayed into the path of the Massons’ departing carriage.

“Are you certain this…is the optimum course of action?” Genesis asked, sighing. “I fail…to see why it’s impossible to bypass the whole affair by simply…going to your people directly. As it were.”

Mirk would have been more than willing to be transported to whatever room Henri was hidden away in, no matter how sick it made him. But what good would that do any of them, ultimately? If there was one thing he’d learned since everything had begun, it was that hiding away forever in a quiet place, far from all the troubles of the world, wasn’t the best way to resolve conflict. Especially if one wanted that quiet place to remain standing when the day was done, along with all the cherished people inside of it. “I’ve already avoided this for too long, really. It’ll be fine. Everything’s just a little overwhelming at first.”

Mirk refocused, hurrying. The gaudy orange carriage had pulled up quick, without the sort of dramatic waiting period he’d been expecting. It had windows—with any luck, the occupants would spot at least one of them and hold off until they’d entered. Before straying into the light cast out through the house’s open doors, he took a deep breath, bracing himself. The wide walk leading up the front steps and into the foyer beyond was thankfully unoccupied, aside from the tall Djin stationed beside the door, the same one who’d come to see him at the infirmary, the one whose kinship name was Am-Hazek. 

"God provides..." he mumbled, some of his nervousness draining away into resolve. 

"My goodness! Is that...is that Mirk Avignon?"

Mirk froze, heart leaping up into his throat.

"It is! Oh, Mirk, it's such a relief to see you! I can hardly believe it!"

Rigidly, trying to make his smile a bit less terrified, Mirk forced himself to turn around. A short woman was hopping down out of the orange carriage, completely ignoring the footman who'd come to help her. Though she almost tripped over her full skirts, it barely made her pause as she rushed over to him and engulfed him in a hug that would have been more fitting coming from an old, drunk infantryman at the bar rather than a young noblewoman on the rise at one of the first parties of the season.

Especially considering that said young noblewoman was Yvette Feulaine.

"It...it's good to see you too, Yvette," he replied, patting her on the back awkwardly, still a bit taken aback by her still hanging off of his shoulders. Though he hadn't yet come onto the walk, he could still make out Genesis in the night beyond, eying Yvette with obvious disdain.

"I'm so sorry about everything, dear friend, so very sorry! If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, or if there’s something mother or father can help with, only ask. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m babbling, aren’t I? But it’s just so shocking, like coming across a ghost…"

"Thank you...really, it's all right..." It wasn't, not really. But the fact that Laurent hadn’t come storming out of the carriage on her heels had calmed him enough that he was able to summon the will to return her embrace properly. He’d always liked Yvette, who was only a year or two older than him, her terrifying preferences in husband material aside. Then again, when he really considered it, especially in light of Genesis still lurking ominously behind her, wearing an expression like he fully intended to gut the first noble who tried to talk to him, Mirk supposed he had no room to criticize other people’s taste in companions. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Yvette finally released him, patting her coiffure a bit as she did her best to compose herself. "Oh, you've always been too modest. Always forgiving everyone for everything, no thought to yourself, just like your mother, God bless her. Sorry, I’m rambling again. And I’m being terribly dark, aren’t I? But Mirk, what _have_ you been doing and where _have_ you been hiding from all of us? Have you moved up here? It’s so far away! How can we visit with you? Really, I wouldn't have guessed that someone of your line would decide to come live with these uncivilized English folk." 

It had to have cost Genesis the whole of his limited reserve of patience to restrain himself from stalking out of the gloom and hissing something derisive about the French in reply. Mirk offered her an arm, which she took with one of her brilliant, unhesitating smiles, and led her off toward the door, not wanting to bump into either the next arrivals or, more importantly, Genesis. "I thought it might be safer for everyone if I stayed away until things calmed down. Where's Laurent, by the way? Have you been married yet?"

"Oh, no!" Yvette chortled, yanking off her cloak before either he or the faintly amused Monsieur Am-Hazek could offer to help her with it. "We've decided to wait for spring. Who gets married when it's cold out? It kills the whole mood. You can’t have a garden reception in the winter, and I’ve really got myself set on one, the one last spring for Marie and Denis’s wedding was so lovely, what, with the earth mages summoning all those blossoming cherry trees, I just couldn’t resist! Oh, is that a new suit? You must have sent back home for it, it’s too handsome to be from here."

Laughing despite himself, he passed his cloak to Am-Hazek. The Djin nodded, tilting his head in the direction Genesis had to be standing in with a questioning arch of his eyebrows. Mirk waved him off, politely—even if he had been wearing a proper coat, Genesis would have stayed outside the whole night rather than hand it over to a stranger, to have it put in a dusty cloakroom alongside other people’s doubtlessly unclean garments. Bowing, Am-Hazek stepped aside, gesturing across the foyer at a wide, mirrored hall that led directly to the ballroom in the center of the house. "Is it? It's only a little something, really, nothing that special." 

Before Mirk could think to ask about Laurent again, Yvette was already off on another tangent, looking about at the mirrors and gilt with various appreciative murmurs. "Isn't this a lovely house? Madame Beaumont has the best taste in everything, I swear, the woman must have a diviner helping her do her decorating. She’s always so in style! It's unfortunate that it has to be in this dreadful, depressing country, though."

"Allow me...to reassure you that...we would much prefer that you kept your useless nobles and their...hideous trappings back on the Continent."

If Genesis could have kept quiet, Mirk thought, mirrors and bright lights or not, the commander most likely could have ghosted in after them and gone unnoticed for a while, perhaps even for the whole evening, if there happened to be an empty dark corner available. Monsieur Am-Hazek had noticed him, of course, but that’s why one hired on Djin—to take stock of things. But three insults to his adopted homeland, from a Frenchwoman, no less, was apparently too much for him to bear. Undeterred by Genesis's scowl, Yvette turned to face him, dragging Mirk around along with, face lighting up with delight. "Oh! And Monsieur Genesis too! What a wonderful surprise! We all have really missed you and your jokes, commander, they always make a party _so_ much more interesting!"

Genesis's expression transitioned fast from scorn to horror as Yvette reached forward and grabbed him by the elbow as well. Thus properly accompanied on both sides, she continued on through the foyer. Mirk had always privately wondered whether Yvette was really as oblivious as she appeared sometimes. It wasn't as if he hadn't been guilty of playing the fool on occasion either, and Yvette seemed to have a suspicious affinity for inflicting her effervescent self on the dourest individuals she could find. "I'm so fortunate to have met you two! It really is so awkward to come in alone, don’t you think? But Laurent's in one of his moods again, and I didn’t want to miss the party. That man...such a dear, but so serious! Isn't it more fun to be happy instead?"

"Oh, so that’s where he is?" Mirk asked, deciding it'd be best to keep the conversation running too quickly for Genesis to get words in edgewise. “I’m so sorry to hear he isn’t feeling well.” Actually, he’d wished it on him more times than he could count over the past fortnight. It made him feel a bit guilty, but not guilty enough to be incredibly relieved.

Cackling, she elbowed him in the ribs, hard, sending him into a coughing fit. Yvette had never been a good judge of her own strength. Last year she'd thrown Louis Bellerose out a window trying out a new dance step that involved a bit of spinning. "Mirk, dear, I said he was in a _mood_ , not coming down with the plague! Though I do appreciate the sentiment regardless. The poor dear gets himself so worked up over things. Sometimes he just needs to have a bit of a rest, for the good of his soul.”

"Yes...I understand..." Mirk wheezed. 

"And, anyway, with Laurent busy I got to try out the new carriage father had made for me! Isn't it just the most handsome thing? He really outdid himself this time." 

"Handsome...like a putrefied pumpkin..." Genesis muttered to himself.

"What was that, commander?"

Just barely, he gulped in enough breath to cut Genesis off. "It's lovely!"

"Why, thank you! I'll have to tell father that you like it, he'll be so glad to hear it praised by a man of such refined tastes."

Genesis snorted, but the noise was thankfully lost in the din of the ballroom that they were fast approaching. "So, Laurent won’t be coming at all? If he isn’t, I may need to ask you for your address again. I’d been meaning to visit him, before…er, everything. I feel like I owe him something of an apology." More like he wanted to know how long to keep avoiding him—the tone of any correspondence was likely to tell him how long Laurent meant to hold on to any ill will he was harboring. He was a man of principles, to be certain, but even a man of principles eventually forgave, or at least moved his rage on to a new target.

Yvette, however, could only shrug, with a heartstruck smile. "Oh, the poor, dear man, he has had such a horrible time lately because of all his beastly cousins, hasn't he? He’s just so protective of everyone; he can’t help himself from getting into disagreements defending the family reputation. It gives him such terrible headaches. I’m sure there’s nothing between you and him, though, that’s impossible! How could someone be upset at a dear like you? Besides, wasn’t it your Aunt Christine’s husband who was causing all the trouble? So it has nothing to do with you! Now tell me, Mirk, would you like to—oh, is that Madame Lemaire? It is! I'm sorry, gentlemen, you _must_ excuse me, I've been looking for her for ages and ages, she has a brooch of mine I insisted she borrow, but I’ll be back right away, I promise! If I don’t get a dance from either of you, I’ll simply _die_ of disappointment. Madame Lemaire!"

As suddenly as she'd flounced in, Yvette was off again, vanishing into the growing crowd of guests, seemingly without a trace. Mirk let out a heavy sigh, rubbing at his elbowed ribs. "She's nice, really, just a little...um, energetic..."

"She's an unbearable harpy," Genesis said, giving the direction she had gone in a dark look.

"Oh, don't be dramatic, _messire_. You shouldn't take her and the others so seriously. They're all very kind. They're just...euh, entertaining themselves? You know, sort of like how Niv and Mordecai do."

"I don't believe that...assaulting another person's dignity is considered...conventionally entertaining."

Which was debatable, in his opinion, but that was probably something best kept to himself. Mirk occupied himself with scanning the ballroom, edging further into it, searching the crowd for one of Madame Beaumont's tall, distinctive hats. His heart was pounding furiously and the sick feeling had returned to his stomach by the time he finally spotted her over by the far entryway, having a muted conversation with a pair of mages he didn't recognize, most likely English. He turned back to Genesis. Mirk was suddenly struck once again by the thought of how much the dress uniform suited him—not even his miserable expression was enough to detract from the imposing air it gave him.

"I shouldn't be too long. Henri probably won’t have much energy for talking, anyways."

Genesis replied without looking over at him. "I will accompany you."

"You don't have to, honestly, it will only be a half—"

"That...was not a request."

He had forgotten exactly how cross parties made the commander. If he hadn't been so nervous, he would have found his horror at the prospects of being surrounded by intrigued nobles much more amusing. "Oh, all right. I'm sure they won't mind you being there, it's only that I don’t want to put you through any trouble."

"I believe I am…bound to encounter that no matter where I go in this accursed place."

Biting his lip, Mirk glanced over the crowd again. After making certain no one in particular had started watching them, he walked along the very edge of the ballroom toward Madame Beaumont, keeping his head down, hoping no one would cut him off on his way there to pull him aide and question him on what had happened. Mirk knew he had to look a little different than he had the last time he'd been among the others. Rather than being meticulously cared for, his hair was lengthier and ragged due to it being trimmed by the infirmary's resident mortician, who, though he tried very hard, was much better suited to cutting up corpses rather than hair. His mother had always taken care to dress him in bright colors and heavy amounts of lace, the better to emphasize the cheerful and carefree attitude she'd trained him so well to project. Mirk had been wrong about the suit. Instead of making him feel powerful, authoritative, it reminded him of when Kae would pile his father's armor on him and make him play soldiers. It projected the right image, but he still didn’t _feel_ right in it.

Madame Beaumont, unlike the other guests, must have seen him coming. She excused herself from her conversation and met him beside the servants' door tucked away in the corner of the ballroom. Giving Genesis a bit of an odd look, she touched Mirk lightly on the shoulder, reassuring. 

"I see you’ve successfully run the gauntlet. Congratulations. Your decoy must have been effective," she said with a wry half smile, tossing a differential gesture in the commander’s direction. 

Mirk couldn't hide his nerves, couldn’t even begin to pretend to. "Are they all right?"

She nodded. “They arrived two nights ago. You’ll want to have them taken to the healers, I’m certain, but there’s nothing urgent.”

“Thank God!”

Madame Beaumont flashed him a grin. "No, thank Black Banner. But I'm certain He doesn't mind the extra gratitude."

Though he didn't see it, he could practically feel Genesis's scorn radiating out from behind him. Over the months he'd been with the K'maneda, he'd heard bits and pieces of gossip about Black Banner, most of it revolving around how much everyone hated them. They were proper sellswords, evidently, not sellswords with a code of honor and duty like the one the K'maneda had. Mirk's best guess was that it had to be one of those typical cases of bad blood boiling up between groups that were too similar to each other. "Well, thank you too, Madame. Is there a stair through here? May we go up to see them?"

She nodded, gesturing at the open servants' door: just inside of it was the junction of a hallway and a steep staircase. "Upstairs, then to the left. Third door, perhaps? I trust you'll be able to find them without trouble," she said, tapping the side of her forehead.

"Oh, yes, of course. I'll try not to be too long."

Sighing, Madame Beaumont gathered up her skirts. "I'd prefer to come with, really, but you know how it is. A lady's work is never done." She glided off, soon called over by another group of foreign mages. 

It was all Mirk could do not to whirl around and bolt up the stairs, to run up them two at a time. He made himself be patient as he ascended them. Composed. It wouldn't do to go throwing his feelings around recklessly. Behind him, he could hear Genesis complaining to himself about the narrowness of the stair's treads. The hall at the top of the stairs was done up in burgundy and green, wide like the hall downstairs had been. The magelights were dim, yellowy, creating a comfortable rather than foreboding atmosphere. He didn't even need to extend his senses to feel where the remains of his family was—even if he'd been shielding himself closely there was no blocking out the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion coming from down the hall.

Now that he was out of view of any potential curious guests, Mirk didn't feel so bad about breaking down into a half-run, the exhaustion growing stronger and stronger until he came to the door it was radiating from. Madame Beaumont had been right—it was the third on the left from the stairs. Mirk caught himself before he could jerk open the door, turning the movement into a soft knock instead.

He was about to try the knob when it opened, just a crack. Beyond it, all he could make out was the blade of a sword poised to lash out at him. It took Mirk two attempts to get the words out: "It...it's just me. I promise."

The door swung the rest of the way open. Claire, the older of Henri's two daughters, was on the other side of it, sheepishly lowering the sword. It was long and delicate, etched with runes almost too fine to see, a bright gold maker’s mark in the shape of a teardrop on its pommel. One of Henri’s infamous, heavily-spelled arming swords. "I'm sorry, Mirk," she said, voice cracking from disuse.

"Oh, no, it's all right! You're just being careful." Mirk lingered in the doorway, gaze flickering over all the faces turned expectantly in his direction. Behind Claire, Armel was sprawled out on a divan, one leg still in a brace, Inès close beside the room’s bed. She was hovering protectively over his Aunt Christine's two youngest children, Edmé and Honoré, two wide-eyed boys who huddled together on an ottoman that’d been pushed over to the bedside. They couldn't have been older than four and five. With a groan of effort, the lump on the bed covered in half a dozen quilts sat up—it was Henri, pale and emaciated, but still capable of finding the energy to make a weak attempt at a smile.

"Thank God," he rasped. "You really are alive."

Things happened too quickly for Mirk to think about after that. In a sudden rush, Claire dropped the sword and wrapped him in a rib-cracking hug. She was soon joined by the two young boys, who, for lack of anywhere else to go, each took hold of one of his legs, clinging to his coat. Even Inès, who was almost painfully shy, and Armel, who had to hobble along on his one good leg, came over, burying Mirk in a mass of trembling limbs and enough mingled grief and relief to make him burst into sobs despite his best efforts to shield himself. Unable to extract either of his arms from their collective hold, he projected what little comfort he could conjure out at them. It was impossible to keep the feeling clear of the guilt that surged up in him.

"I'm...I'm so sorry...it...I'm here to help, anything I can do," Mirk worked out, only able to stop his crying by drawing on the life force inside of him, which didn't get rid of the guilt and pain, but at least blunted it so that it was bearable.

This was met with a jumble of muffled replies, most of them corresponding apologies and requests not to worry over any of them. A small part of Mirk found this blackly amusing: it was no surprise that a family that was so meek and gracious would soon be wiped out. It was as if the demons and their human cohorts had purposefully killed every Avignon who was strong and fearless and had let them, the soft ones, escape to be caught later at their leisure. It wasn't as if they'd fight back, was it?

Mirk wasn't certain how much time passed before his cousins finally stepped back far enough to let him slide over to Henri's bedside. Though his uncle couldn't manage to do much more than reach over and squeeze his hand, the relief radiating from him was more than enough to make up for it. 

"Uncle Henri, what happened?" Mirk asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him.

He let out a sigh that devolved into a coughing fit; Mirk touched a hand lightly to his chest, quieting it with a spark of greenish-yellow magic. Shaking his head, Henri found the strength to fix another smile on his face. "Oh...you've gotten better at that..."

Mirk nodded, waiting for Henri to answer his question in his own time. His children (and weren't Christine's now Henri's too, essentially?) drifted over, forming a half-circle of concerned and tired faces around the family's only remaining proper adult. Catching the look of fear in Edmé's eyes—they all thought he might become an empath, he was too sensitive to the world around him, even for a child—Mirk took him under the arms and lifted him up onto the bed, stroking his hair to hopefully soothe him some.

"It isn't as bad as it looks," Henri finally said. "I just...well, I hadn't had anything to eat in some time. But I'll be fine, everyone's fussing over me enough to have me fat by Christmas."

The unsaid part of the story made shame, choking and dark, wash over him—while he had been comfortable and secure in the City of Glass, Henri had been starving himself to death for the sake of his children. "I'll have you brought to the infirmary tomorrow. All of you," he added, looking around at his cousins. Though Inès and Claire were doing a good job of hiding it, he could sense how badly they'd strained their magic protecting their father, sense the feelings of dissociation and unreality in them that were the hallmarks of an incipient delirium state, a sickness brought about by severe elemental imbalance. A day or two more, most likely, and they would have used enough of their elemental magic to drive themselves completely and irreversibly mad. "I'm sure you all could use some healing."

There were a few silent nods. "That's very kind of you," Inès said in her customary near-whisper. 

"It's the least I can do. I...I know it's not half as comfortable as here, but if you'd all like to stay in the City of Glass until I sort out how to take care of this and get you home, you can."

"City of Glass?" Henri asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forget...that's where the K'maneda live. I know that, well, they, er, don't have the best reputation, but..."

 

Henri twitched a hand at him, dismissively. "If it's safer, that's all that matters."

"I can...assure you that...given your present situation, there is no place more secure."

Mirk had forgotten all about Genesis, too distracted by all his family's competing emotions to keep track of him. He had closed the door and come in, stationing himself in the corner of the room closest to its windows without anyone noticing. It didn't bode well that Armel had startled and instantly ducked his head in reaction to this, like a canon had gone off behind him. It reminded Mirk uncomfortably of the men in the long-term care ward, the ones who would bolt and hide themselves in their closets or under their beds at the sound of thunder.

"Oh, I'm sorry, everyone, er...Henri, you might remember the commander? He helped us all back...ah, before..."

Henri tried to look like he remembered, tried to give the nod of pleased recognition one gave a long-absent acquaintance. He needn't have bothered. Even if Genesis had cared about that sort of thing, he doubted he could tell what an expression so nuanced was trying to convey. "Yes, yes. Commander...er..."

Genesis was distracted, pulling back the drapes covering the window just a hair with one long, white finger. He didn't notice that Henri was struggling with his name. "This...residence has...sufficient barrier spells, but...it would be prudent, I feel, to reinforce them." As if to prove his point, he ran his hand down the window casing, frowning at the protection runes that flared at his touch. "Hmph, not even...elementally specific...Order orientation...hardly wise..."

His cousins, Mirk soon realized, were all staring at Genesis as if he was some sort of ghoul newly arisen from the grave to take his bloody revenge against those still living. Henri wasn't doing much better. He couldn’t blame them. Even he had to concede that anyone who’d been stalked by vampires and their constructs for months would be wary of someone who looked like he did. "Commander Genesis has been kind enough to look after me these past few months. Really, I think I'd have been completely lost without his help."

The fact that Genesis turned his frown on him when confronted with this display of gratitude didn't do much to cultivate the image Mirk was trying to make for him. "It...is unimportant."

"Modest too, even," Mirk added, with an awkward laugh. 

"Well, it's a pleasure to re-make your acquaintance, Commander Genesis," Henri said, grimacing as he forced his hand to move enough to indicate each of the children as he rattled off their names. "Armel, my oldest, Inès, Claire, and the little two are Edmé and Honoré, they're Christine's sons, God bless them." As soon as Henri had finished introducing them, the children, in eerie near-unison, gave a muted, cautious sort of _enchanté_. Mirk pulled an exaggerated grin onto his face, nodding at Genesis encouragingly, hoping that he might recognize the cue.

It took Genesis a moment to remember what to do, but at least he made an effort to be cordial. Like someone was holding a knife to his neck, he gave a stiff nod and contorted his frown into one of his tortured attempts at a smile. It looked more like he was about to sneeze. It didn't help that he'd somehow managed to freeze his eyebrows at different levels. "...yes. As an...aside, you may desist with the...commander business. As it were."

The somber air that had dominated the room since Mirk broke, the two younger children laughing openly at his strained expression. Claire at least had the sense to cover her grin with one hand, Inès concealing hers by sweeping her hair entirely over her face, though neither gesture hid their giggling well. Which made Henri collapse into wheezing snickers, Armel trying to calm him while at the same time biting back snickers of his own. Which made Genesis drop the rigid expression in favor of one of his more exasperated frowns. Which set Mirk off, which sent the whole family into fits, the sort of uncontrollable mirth generated by grief becoming too much to bear, leaving laughter as the only possible response.

Muttering darkly to himself, Genesis dismissed them and went about laying his own warding spells across the room’s windowsills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an aside, the magical nobility is not necessarily representative of the historical nobility of the period, although there's a fair amount of overlap. I'm trying to address most of the divergences in-work, but some extraneous stuff will be explained in further notes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirk finally gets hit by the clue-bat. Well, not literally. 
> 
> Two notes--one, as I mentioned beforehand, the mage nobility doesn't behave the same way mortal nobility does. The mage nobility is a lot more informal. And, two, since Mirk's magic is so closely tied to the Earth, he gets very sick every autumn at some indefinite point and essentially turns into a human mannequin for a week or so. That'll be fully elaborated on next chapter, but I wanted to give a little heads-up as to what's going on with him.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Tell your friends! <3

"You really must do something about the poor man, Seigneur Avignon. He's making a complete fool of himself."

Mirk sighed. He had been thinking much the same thing, though it made him a tad worried to hear someone as reserved as Désirée Masson comment openly on it. "I'm afraid, Madame, that the only way to help him may mean doing something...er, drastic."

Mage balls, though superficially similar, were, when one got down to it, not at all like mortal noble ones. Many things differed—acceptable topics of conversation, favored modes of dress, the preferred forms of entertainment and the order of the evening’s events. But, more than anything else, it was the difference in the way that the ladies were expected to interact with the gentlemen that set mage balls apart. The culture of the magical nobility granted lady mages a much greater degree of latitude than mortal etiquette allowed. Most likely because if someone had told the assembled noble ladies that they were expected to speak only of polite topics and couldn’t dance the swing or spin steps anymore because they involved kicking one’s knees up too high, and weren’t allowed to inflict even a smidgen of magical mayhem on their male counterparts when things got dull, the person doing the telling would soon find themselves set aflame, frozen, levitated to the ceiling, and bombarded with magically hurled cutlery all at once. At _least_.

The unspoken code of social conduct that concerned choosing one’s dance partners for the evening, for example, was quite different. Rather than the men asking the women to dance, the women were the ones free to pick and choose among the assembled gentlemen. A gentleman couldn’t refuse a lady's request for a dance outright and remain on the sidelines; to do so was the social equivalent of slapping her in the face. A gentleman couldn’t avoid dancing by sulking in the card room, and even if they were imprudent enough to choose to leave the ballroom for less hectic climes, they were obligated to come back and dance if any lady invited them to. But, despite having the right to choose their partners, it was still considered improper for a lady to ask a gentleman to dance outright. Improper aside, asking straight out was considered far too simple and not at all fun. The asking wasn't done in the form of a question: it was done with elegant and innocent turns of phrase, with certain expressions and gestures, or with a pointed flick of a fan if a man was being particularly dense. 

At present, Genesis was trapped in the corner he’d been hiding in by three curious ladies of chaotic orientation, who were all practically bashing him in the chest with their fans, each growing increasingly more daring and bold due to his continued indifference. Ignoring a lady was not the same as refusing her. Ignoring her was an invitation for her to show off just how powerful and fetching she could be until the gentleman relented and offered out his hand. Mirk suspected that if Genesis didn't get the hint soon, one of the ladies was going to come straight out and try to magic him into accepting. Which, needless to say, wouldn't go well for either party.

“I hope you aren’t thinking of doing anything too shocking,” Désirée replied, giving him a questioning look.

Mirk thought over his options, dancing in a reflexive way, glad that he was currently with a partner as graceful as Désirée. If he'd still been entertaining Chantal Tremblay—a cheerful and pleasant girl who had the misfortune of not being able to move to a beat even if spelled to—he’d have to be concentrating hard to keep from being tripped. "May I be so inconsiderate as to ask you to entertain a small favor for me?"

The smile was barely visible, but still there. "Perhaps."

"If this doesn’t go well, please take the liberty of telling some story about me being rude to you and running off. I would feel terrible if your good reputation got ruined because of me."

Her smile grew a fraction, pleased, as the current song came to an end and he stepped back into a low bow. "You've always been so considerate, Seigneur. It’s almost enough to convince me the Church hasn't become a shell of its former self."

Mirk laughed, releasing her hand. "Thank you, Madame. You're always a pleasure to dance with. Be sure to give my regards to Rory, yes?"

Désirée nodded, performing a subdued curtsey. “Good luck,” she added, as she scanned the ballroom, soon disappearing into the shifting crowds. Bracing himself for the worst, Mirk drew himself up to his full height and started off toward Genesis. He took care to keep his pace quick, keep his eyes trained exclusively on the group in the corner. With any luck, no one would try to intercept him.

As he got closer, he could hear the women’s voices over the general din of the ballroom. One of them, a tall wisp of a lady, stepped closer to Genesis than the others, head cocked to one side, fan moving rapidly at her neck. "I've heard so many things about the K'maneda...are you from one of their noble families? I don't mean to be forward, Commander, but it's only that your aura is so distinctive..."

Genesis shot the woman a cross look, backing as far into the corner as he could. "...no."

Another woman spoke up, this one shorter, familiar in a way Mirk couldn’t quite identify, with intricately styled black curls and a dress that hugged her figure to the greatest degree that the current fashion allowed. She looked demurely away from him while still leaning in his direction. "Really? I can't believe a mage like you wouldn't have a title...forgive me if I'm being too familiar, but it seems impossible to me that they wouldn't want to honor a gentleman with such obvious talent..."

Though the women paid the shadows gathering around him little heed, perhaps thinking it to be some sort of flashy parlor trick, Mirk instantly recognized it for what it was: Genesis was reaching a state of critical annoyance. "I would...rather be killed."

The group of ladies gave an enthusiastic titter of laughter. Evidently, they thought the statement too odd to be serious, which, considering the setting, was a reasonable assumption, despite it actually being dead wrong. Before the third woman, an innocent-looking blonde with a correspondingly delicate dress, could comment, Mirk sidestepped into the uncomfortably small space between the ladies and the commander. Lifting his hands up into a conciliatory gesture, he flashed Genesis a strained grin. "Commander! There you are. I've been looking for you!" 

This, at least, got the shadows to recede, as his expression went blank. "You know...perfectly well where I've been."

It would be better to do get it over with. With a shrug that he hoped looked casual, he bowed, as much as the limited space permitted him to, lowering his head slightly and lifting out a hand to him. "Take my hand," he hissed through his grin, just above a whisper. 

Fortunately, it worked—there were no irritated comments or scornful tisks; the ladies hadn’t heard him. But Genesis must have, as, after weighing him against the three women, he took his hand, delicately. Though Mirk couldn't see what was going on behind him, he could guess at it by how the tenseness in Genesis's shoulders eased. None of the women would be happy, but it was a sign of weakness to linger when passed over. It wasn't, however, considered weak to have a heated conversation with a sister or cousin about the person who'd been chosen instead ,which meant it was imperative for him to implement the second half of his plan post haste. 

Two men dancing wasn't strange on its own. There were so many extra men at mages' balls that if they didn't dance together, half the attendees would spend the whole night standing about staring at the floor. Most times, it was used as an excuse to show off fine dancing skills or to put certain ornamental spells on display. A man choosing another man over three impatient women, however, wasn't the sort of thing that would escape notice, especially if said women decided to spread word of the incident around. Unless, of course, it became immediately clear that instead of being passed over, they’d just been gallantly and expertly saved from total humiliation. 

"I hate to sound rude, _messire_ ," Mirk said, as he performed a slight bow for the sake of appearances, "but are you still terrible at dancing?"

\- - -

All things considered, Mirk thought it'd turned out better than he'd anticipated.

"They...what?"

It took some work initially to learn how Genesis turned each dance backwards, but once he'd seen each step done two or three times, there was no guesswork in it anymore. Genesis's convoluted chain of mistakes was like a dance of its own, an anti-dance, each movement of the step wrong in exactly the same way. He still had to let him drift off course to a certain extent, to reassure onlookers that they were better off laughing at him rather than being laughed at themselves, but he wasn’t getting stepped on anymore. "They wanted to dance."

"If they...wished to dance, why did they not...request it directly?"

Mirk shrugged. "Would you have said yes?"

Genesis cringed, like he’d just suggested that he go outside and roll around in the gutter. "...no."

"Then it's for the best that you didn't understand, _messire_."

"The whole lot of you miserable nobles make no sense."

The current song ended. Mirk kept a close watch on the exchange of partners going on around him. Though Genesis didn't know what to do with himself when the music ended, standing rigid and still while eying the ballroom's corners and exits, it wasn't necessary for the commander to do anything to keep him as a partner. By staying within a pace of him, facing him directly, Mirk could both ensure that Genesis’s supposed claim on him remained clear, at least until the dinner break, and take stock of the new couplings for the next song without having to bend awkwardly to one side to look around him.

Mirk caught sight of the woman in the fitted dress who'd been badgering Genesis earlier edging in their direction. She'd snapped up Christian Voclain, not a bad choice, but clearly one of expedience. Rather than looking at her partner, she was glancing back and forth between Mirk and Yvette Feulaine, who was currently hauling a miserable-looking Louis Bellerose to the nearest bit of bare floor. As the dancers stepped up into position, ready to bow and curtsy when the music resumed, both women proceeded to train their grins on Mirk.

"Oh dear..."

The next song began; a modified quadrille that was done a touch closer than usual, danced with one partner instead of a group. Mirk bowed with a proper degree of deference while Genesis looked on, still perplexed by the gesture. That was another reason why he was glad Genesis hadn't accepted a dance—the only way to get him to bow to anyone was by hacking off his legs at the knee.

"I believe...we are being watched," Genesis said, as Mirk stepped forward and took hold of his hands.

"Yvette's a nice girl. She wouldn't do anything that bad." She was still staring at him, grinning from ear to ear, not paying any attention at all to Louis, who she was hurling around at three times her normal force. He'd turned green. At least she'd probably forget about him and Genesis if Louis got sick all over her, Mirk thought. 

A spin, a series of backwards steps, a turn in a circle. Mirk nudged Genesis a step to the left, to keep them from crashing into one of the pairs closest to them. Genesis was bad enough to begin with. Genesis trying to dance while thinking about something else was a hazard to the health of everyone within a ten-foot radius. "She's like Niv," Mirk offered, in an attempt to reassure him. "She just likes to play jokes. Niv never really hurts anyone, does he?”

"Does the woman also throw tables at people?"

Mirk laughed, half at the idea of Yvette flipping over tables and half at Genesis’s sour tone. "That's not something a proper lady does in polite company, _messire_."

"Hmph."

He had to push the commander into a sudden forward spin to keep him from stepping on the foot of a woman behind him. In an effort to get his mind off of Yvette and back on dancing, he edged further into Genesis's personal space. Nothing brought the commander’s attention back from more abstract thoughts quite like the threat of being touched. 

Not that he wasn't already touching him. Despite having held on to his hands for most of the past half hour, they were still chilly. Mirk didn't mind, not really, not since Genesis had resigned himself to being forced into dancing and had stopped trying to grasp him with only his fingertips. He found the contact comforting, distracting in a pleasant way. It reminded him that even if he botched things irreversibly, there was always the K'maneda, always him. Safety. Somewhere to go back to. 

At the same time, he found the notion surprising—had it really only taken a year for him to think of the cramped dormitory and the coldness of the City as home, of the healers and the infantrymen like family? He still cared for the things he had left, still went to Mass as often as he could and still thought of the sun-drenched fields surrounding the manor, of the faint smell of the sea carried along on the wind, when he needed to calm himself. But it was too painful to think of _maman_ and _Aena_ and Kae and _grandpère_ when he was caught in the after-battle rush of dead and dying and needed something to tie him back to the living, beautiful world that existed beyond the infirmary doors.

Mostly, when pressed to find something to hold onto, he thought of Genesis.

Mirk was so caught up in this thought, by the dizzying, unrecognizable emotions that it had triggered, that he nearly missed it. He even saw it happening, even thought about it in an idle way, as he devoted most of his mind to the puzzle of why, even though it wasn’t much fun and it had already bruised both his insteps, he found dancing with the commander preferable to dancing with any of the others. Yvette and the other woman (who he now placed as one of Yvette’s cousins on her mother’s side, though her name still escaped him) were dancing around them in a tightening circle, at the same time kicking a metal ingot across the circle to one another with tiny, sharp motions, Yvette’s fire magic heating the metal while the other woman’s earth magic drew it out into yards and yards of fine, near-invisible wire. He saw this all, and still, was too distracted by his other rushing thoughts to connect the fact that they were setting up their infamous cat’s cradle joke to the fact that the person most likely to have done anything that would merit having the trick played on them that evening was his current dance partner.

Genesis, on the other hand, had noticed the two women stringing the net of wire around them, and had taken care to avoid being caught in any of its loops. However, he hadn’t noticed what the wire on the floor was there to distract him from. Namely, the interlocking wire net being formed at the same time in the air above them. It was only Yvette tossing him a teasing wave that knocked Mirk out of his woolgathering, just in time for him to see her cousin to make the sharp, downward, counterclockwise gesture that brought the net above them snapping down around them.

Even then, Genesis, with his inhuman reflexes, would have probably been able to destroy the wire before it could fully ensnare them, had the first few loops not cinched them tightly together, causing the commander to freeze up in bewilderment and shock. When he did come unfrozen, the first thing he did was try to backpedal, which, of course, only made him trip and go tumbling over, dragging Mirk down along with him. For an instant, everything became a blur of colors and light, the tinging of the wires against one another only barely audible over the hum of the music and the shocked sounds of the crowd.

Then Mirk found himself on the floor on top of him, face to face. By all rights, he should have been ashamed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. But the look of horror on Genesis’s face was too much for him to bear, and he collapsed into a fit of hysterical laughter, which only doubled once he heard Yvette’s distinctive gasping, hiccupping guffaw rising above the general murmur. At least he was able to move enough so that he could hide his face in the curve of Genesis’s neck while he laughed himself to tears. Part of him was bracing for the inevitable shame, but it never came. Instead, all he felt was a familiar sort of warmth, an easy sort of contentment that was distinctly out of place given the situation, an urge to shake Genesis by the shoulders until he finally felt it too and started to laugh along with the rest of them. 

Mirk had almost regained his composure by the time the commander recovered enough to reduce the wires to nothing—rather than seeing it, he felt it, the cool whisper of shadows nearby making him suddenly aware of how red he’d gone. Taking care not to stumble, Mirk carefully eased off of him and got to his feet, sucking in a deep breath as he looked around. 

The music had stopped, along with all the dancing. Reaction was varied—the younger nobles were still hiding snickers and grins behind fans and raised hands, the oldest ones laughing aloud with no trepidation, only a handful of faces blank or disapproving. It was the emotions that buoyed him: there were feelings of scorn and disdain amongst the mages, but they were dwarfed by the lighthearted amusement that bubbled off through many of their shields, an amusement he recognized, that of a friend shaking their head at another friend’s foolish antics. The emotions kept the grin on his face as he performed a showman-like bow, the gesture summoning applause from the crowd as he turned back to Genesis and offered out a hand to him. He was staring blankly up at the ceiling, exasperated.

“You can’t lie there all night, _messire_ ,” Mirk said, unable to keep from giggling a little.

“Is that…so?”

“Well, yes, I suppose you could. But it’d be awfully rude to make people dance over you, don’t you think?”

Miserably, without taking his offered hand, Genesis rolled back to his feet. As he grimaced and prodded at the back of his head, another wave of applause rippled through the crowd, a fresh chorus of giggles and snickers. Before the commander could get too annoyed by this, Mirk took him by the arm and gestured off in the direction of the front door. “A little air would be nice, yes?”

“I was…under the impression that the aim of this…event was to reinforce one’s reputation.”

It was. Mirk had only misjudged exactly what kind of reputation he was trying to cultivate. It had strained him so badly, trying in vain to project a regal and serious aura, that slipping back into one of harmless agreeability was like collapsing into bed at the end of a long day with a warm drink. The fall had put a new notion into his head—true, he’d been knocked over and tied up like a fool, but did that actually change much of anything? It didn’t make the staff any less real, nor did it make the life that pulsated in his center any less warm and reassuring. Something his mother had said to him, a long time ago, floated up to the forefront of his mind. _If everyone thinks you’re harmless, then doesn’t that make everything you do, cunning or kindly, harmless as well?_

And then came something Yule had said to him after that awkward mix-up with the closet, something that had up to that point struck him as being nothing more than typical K’maneda paranoia: _you only call yourself useless all the time to hide the fact that you can do whatever you damn well please._

Mirk flashed Genesis another smile, tugging on the sleeve of his uniform coat. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

Grumbling, Genesis strode past him, brushing off his hand and stalking quick down the path through the crowd that had opened up at Mirk’s indication of door. Laughing, finding it much easier to smile than it had been before, he trailed after him. It’d be best to give the commander a bit of room until he stopped resenting the fact that a trick had been played on him and returned to resenting all the attendees of the ball for being “useless royalist idiots”. Mirk made it to the ballroom door, but not a step further, his returning cheer and confidence crushed by the scene out in the hall. Genesis had come to a halt, peering down at the short, wiry, enraged man who’d planted himself square in the commander’s path in a bemused fashion. When Genesis took a step to the side to attempt going around him, the other man mirrored the motion, cursing him. “Where is he?” the man hissed. 

Laurent Montigny had arrived. 

Mirk froze in fright, his vision going blurry as if he was about to faint. Laurent finally caught sight of him standing in the doorway, darting around Genesis and storming in his direction, hands clenched at his sides. As he came closer, Mirk could see that the front of his coat had been sprinkled with tiny black stains. As he came closer still, Mirk could identify it by smell. Blood.

"Avignon!"

He forced himself out of his shock and assumed a deferential, yet not completely submissive stance, smiling back at Laurent's scowl with an air of concern that wasn’t entirely false. Now that he was within arm’s reach, Mirk could see that there was a bloody handprint on the side of his neck that had previously been hidden by shadow and Laurent’s coat. Though he felt like he was about to faint, Mirk somehow found the resolve to speak. "Monsieur Laurent, what is it? Is something the matter?"

"You damn well know what's the matter!" he snapped. People were edging closer to the door. Mirk could feel their curiosity pricking at the back of his mind.

"Forgive me, Monsieur, but I'm afraid I really don’t. Are you hurt? There’s blood all—"

Fuming, he snatched a pair of cold-weather gloves from his waistcoat pocket and flung them down at Mirk's feet. A distant part of his mind that hadn't been overcome with panic commented, dryly, that the gesture was a bit too dramatic to take seriously, blood aside. "Seigneur, how _dare_ you say to me that you haven't the slightest idea what you've done?"

Raising his hands in an apologetic gesture, he tried to project a sense of calm. The rage it ran up against was impenetrable. “Is…is someone hurt? Do you need a healer?”

“No,” Laurent growled, so focused on him that he didn’t react at all to Yvette dashing out of the ballroom and circling to his side. “Your Imperial stooges did their job exactly as you asked them to. Serge Montigny is dead. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Mirk could only stare at Laurent, mind not catching up with what he’d said until Yvette edged between them. “Laurent, I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching out and touching his arm again. He whisked it away like she was toxic. “I’m so, so sorry. But I’m sure Seigneur Avignon had nothing to do with it.”

“Like hell he didn’t!” Laurent bellowed, loud enough to make both Mirk and Yvette wince away from him. “Even if the Seigneur didn’t order it himself, he didn’t try to stop it either. And for that, I deserve satisfaction.”

Searching for something to calm him, Mirk approached, warily, hands still raised. “I’m so sorry, Monsieur Laurent. Please, if there’s something I can do, or if you could just tell me what happened, I—”

He was having none of it. Seething, Laurent turned away, apparently no longer able to tolerate the mere sight of him. “A half hour. Outside. In the road, to spare the lady of the house any embarrassment.” With the conditions said—there was no mention of how far he’d have to go before Laurent would be satisfied—he left as suddenly as he’d appeared, ignoring Monsieur Am-Hazek’s offer to return his cloak to him. 

Yvette, once she overcame her shock, turned to face Mirk, dropping into a curtsey low enough to send her flat on the floor before she bounded up again and grasped both his hands, her head lowered. "Oh, Mirk, I'm so sorry! Really! I’m sure I can get him to explain what happened; I’ll go try to find out and come back. It’s awful about his Uncle Serge, but I’m sure you had nothing to do with it.” She paused, staring down at the floor with glistening eyes. “I always forget how angry he can get. He's just such a gentle, caring man with me that, that..." 

Yvette had to be shielding herself somewhat, but since they were touching, he could feel her emotions as strongly as if she’d been projecting them at him—worry interlaced with shock and confusion. Mirk inclined his head, squeezing her hands. "It isn't your fault at all, I understand. He has every right to be upset. Seigneur Montigny, dead…” It was hard for him to think with Yvette’s emotions pouring into him, but Mirk was beginning to piece together what had to have happened. If General Aker had found some sort of physical evidence that proved the more powerful Montignys, the ones tied tight to Church and King, had been responsible for his family’s deaths, he wouldn’t hesitate to take it to Lord Emmanuel and the others. And if they had found it convincing enough, then Uriel, the commander of the Divine Host, responsible for carrying out the judgment communally decided upon among the highest-ranking representatives of the Empire, would have been dispatched to kill them. 

“The poor dear, I can hardly imagine what he had to have seen…please, let me go talk to him.” Yvette said, breaking into his thoughts.

“Of course. Please, go to him. I’m sure he needs you.” Mirk released her hands and bowed to her, as low as he could without having to physically get on his knees. Yvette was too distracted, too consumed with worry and fear, to register this, and had already gathered up her skirts and run after him. As he watched her go, her emotions finally cleared from his mind, exposing what had been beneath, in his own heart.

He was glad Serge Montigny was dead.

Biting on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from visibly gaging, Mirk turned and plunged himself back into the crowd. Curiosity, ire, disbelief, he’d take any and all of it from the crowd. Anything to keep from having to listen to himself.

\- - -

It had started to rain properly, hard and ice cold—the young men who'd gathered on the front walk and drive to witness the duel were all wrapped up tight in their cloaks, hats glistening in the dim lamplight. Laurent was pacing back and forth some distance away from him, flipping his sword in one hand and muttering to himself. Mirk imagined he had to look silly in comparison to Laurent, to an almost disrespectful degree; the man hadn't gone back for his cloak, allowing his suit to get ruined without a second thought. Meanwhile, he was mummified in his cloak, which happened to be a touch ragged and careworn from wearing it back and forth to the infirmary, shaking from a combination of chills and nerves. Mirk had been so desperate for warmth that he'd sheepishly asked Genesis if he could borrow his hat. Thankfully, the commander had handed it over without comment, flipping up the collar of his greatcoat, which he had summoned upon seeing the rain, to make up for its loss. 

"I don't want to hurt him," Mirk sighed. Though Genesis had let himself get swallowed up by the shadows again, he could still tell he was nearby. It was a tickle at the edge of his senses, the familiar staticky sensation caused by his magic. Mirk couldn’t tell whether Genesis was concerned or not about the whole affair. Perhaps if he’d been calmer, or perhaps if Genesis could project some, he might have been able to deduce it. As it stood, all he had to go on was the sound of his voice.

"It would be inadvisable...to employ a terminal strategy regardless of your feelings on the matter." It was said in a low tone, deathly even, his hissing accent more prominent than it usually was. The commander was feeling some kind of genuine emotion, but it was impossible to tell what it was.

"Then again, I suppose I might not be able to defend well enough to even try at offense."

"Are you...implying this man...possesses some skill greater than mine?"

"Pride never got anyone anywhere, _messire_ ," Mirk replied, with a heavy sigh. 

"It isn't pride. It is merely a...matter of demonstrable fact."

That was true enough—he couldn’t think of anyone offhand who could challenge Genesis to a swordfight with reasonable confidence. That still didn’t mean that he had to mention it. Mirk clung to the trickle of annoyance that passed through his mind, like holding tight to the tail end of a kite caught in a gale. Annoyance was fine. It was uncalled for, as he knew Genesis’s rational thought process didn’t include exceptions for being polite, that he would find it more impolite to be dishonest rather than not mentioning an awkward truth. But it was fine to be annoyed. Acceptable. Tolerable. Anything was better than that sick gladness still lurking in his subconscious. 

Mirk was knocked out of his thoughts by Laurent’s approach, his fury radiating outward and pulsing in time with his stomping. His eyes were glowing dark red with his poorly restrained magic. "What?" he growled. "Don’t you have a weapon?"

He swallowed, hard, trying in vain to clear his head. "I feel it's only right to parley with you first, Monsieur. Is it impossible to resolve our differences with words instead?"

"The time for words passed the moment you sent an angel to my family’s doorstep.” 

Mirk couldn’t think of anything to say in response to this, opting instead to look over the crowd of shadowed faces off to his left, searching for anyone who might be able to say something to Laurent that would make him see reason. The men were all straight-faced and unblinking. Madame Beaumont had arrived, standing in the front doorway with arms folded, expressionless. Other women had gathered at every front window, peeking through the curtains, Yvette at the one nearest the front door, looking as if she was about to burst into tears. 

Laurent snorted, stepping back from the mark that someone from the assembled nobility had made halfway between them. "No magic," he called out. "No running. I won’t have satisfaction until either you or I can no longer stand."

Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself first, Mirk nodded and drew his staff from inside his cloak, spinning it twice to extend it to quarterstaff length. Laurent scoffed at the sight of it, the fire in his eyes burning even brighter. 

"Where's your damn sword, Avignon?"

"I’m a healer and a servant of the Church. We can't use blades," Mirk said, keeping his voice soft, even, though it wanted to waver.

Laurent gave a bark of a laugh. "Healer? Servant of the Church? Spare me."

Mirk shrugged, trying to project an apologetic feeling, though he knew it didn’t stand a chance of breaking through Laurent’s anger. "If you don't wish to fight me like this, we can still talk."

Rather than continue to argue the point, Laurent backed into a ready position. "One of you call the count."

It was impossible to tell who in the crowd did it. The words rang out in the empty street beyond the drive, echoed hollowly, the night impossibly quiet. On the go, Laurent sprang into action, crossing the line between them and beginning to circle around him, looking for an opening. Mirk remained still. He was much louder than he remembered, his steps thudding along so heavily as he circled behind him that he could track him without turning to face him. Hadn't Laurent always been quick as thought and silent as death, swooping down on his opponent like a falcon, striking and then streaking away only to dive again and again, taking care to humiliate before moving in for the final blow? When he made his first move, Mirk sidestepped it without needing to raise his staff. 

Laurent was in front of him again, cursing. Feinting left then dancing back right, he swung at him. Mirk thought it had to be a dream, that Laurent had already knocked him out and he was only imagining things. His swing was dead accurate. But it was so slow, so obvious that Mirk dodged again rather than lifting the staff to protect his open right side.

That was enough to trigger the full of Laurent's rage—he quit testing him, pursuing him instead with full force and speed. Still, it was as if he was slashing and jabbing through water rather than air, every movement exaggerated and labored. Mirk elected to start defending with the staff, warding off the blows with dramatic movements, hoping Laurent might believe that he was really trying his hardest, dazed by his prowess rather than by the impossibility that he might actually be better than him. 

Mirk knew he was terrible. He'd always been completely useless at fighting. He was always too clumsy and awkward, always bested in an instant with the scolding tap of the flat of a sword against his shoulder, neck, torso. The error in his reasoning only became clear to him when he heard Genesis laugh from somewhere off in the darkness, genuinely, an inhuman hissing and rumbling rather than one of his poor attempts at mimicking a normal laugh.

He'd been comparing two completely different things while still expecting them to be the same.

In his memory, Laurent was indomitable. But in his memory, Laurent was always fighting other human mages, fellow nobles who treated swordsmanship like a hobby rather than like a basic function of existence, as essential as breathing. Mirk was forced by the scene playing out before him to come to the disturbing conclusion that he wasn't terrible in general—he was only terrible in comparison to Genesis. Laurent was incredibly talented, but he'd never had a veritable force of nature as a sparring partner. His tiny improvements against Genesis's halfhearted, one-handed technique had really been leaps and bounds that had placed him, unknowingly, at a level that could only be matched by someone who wasn't a full-blooded human. 

The normal reaction to this sort of realization, Mirk knew, should have been relief, a surge in confidence. Instead, he only felt a crushing shame. It wasn't a fair fight. Laurent couldn’t know what he’d been doing over the past months, of what he’d been taught. But it was too late to mention it and, besides, he doubted the pride of any fighting man could bear the thought of being told by a healer that he wasn’t strong enough. Frantically, Mirk tried to think of a way to stop the fight without anyone getting too hurt.

Truly, he'd have liked to take a blow in the side or leg, somewhere non-fatal, and stay on the ground, conceding the duel. But was that right? Wasn’t that just a bigger insult than being defeated, even? It was too late for that strategy too; he’d let too much of his newfound skill show for anyone watching to believe that he hadn’t just thrown the fight. Biting his lip, continuing to fight Laurent off in a way he knew would probably look insulting, Mirk searched for the least cruel way to win. It was only once Laurent's magic began to involuntarily run down the blade of his sword, setting it aflame, that Mirk made himself move, ducking under a reckless, fully extended swing and aiming for his exposed left side.

It wasn't a very fast swing, but the feeling of his staff connecting with Laurent's ribs was like being hit with a cannonball. They both staggered backwards. Mirk shook it off first; he'd never hit another person who didn't have the ability to control their own pain, but he’d been surrounded too many times to count by mangled infantrymen, and one person's pain, no matter how great, could never compare to that of fifty, a hundred. Backing away further, he waited for Laurent to trip, collapse. He didn't, stumbling back toward him, the fire creeping up his arm, soon haloing him. Mirk would have to hit him again.

Laurent's magic lashed out at him as he eased closer again. Mirk was terrified by how easily he avoided the tongues of flame. He slipped behind Laurent and swiped at his knees, hoping only to knock him over, only to hit him just hard enough to make him think twice about getting back up. Instead, he heard the crack of bone and a scream as Laurent crumpled. Clutching at his own knee, stung by Laurent's pain, he hopped to his side. 

"Are you all right? I'm so sorry, here, let me—"

Before he could lay a hand on him, Laurent had shoved himself up onto his uninjured knee and took a desperate jab at him. Overwhelmed by the other man's pain, Mirk let it hit him in the hope that it might clear his head enough for him to reach out and heal him. The pain where the sword hit, slicing open his side—he had tried to take it full-on, but his muscle memory responded at the last moment, sparing him the brunt of the blow—was there, but negligible when compared to Laurent's. It wasn’t much more than a cut, probably not even deep enough to need stitches. Momentum threw the other man onto his stomach, but still, he forced himself back up and lunged at him again.

Mirk didn't want to continue. He'd done enough harm. But if he didn't disarm Laurent, he wasn't going to stop no matter how much it hurt him. As he was trying to think of the least harmful place he could hit him while still knocking away his sword, he suddenly found himself only a hand’s width away from being engulfed by a burst of blue flame so powerful that it audibly cracked through the air.

“Stop! Laurent, just stop!”

Yvette was sobbing, standing at the end of the walk, ahead of the rest of the crowd. Though Laurent’s deep red fame struggled and flared against Yvette’s blue, it had about as much effect on it as a bucket of water on a wildfire. He was trapped. Mirk physically recoiled from Laurent’s mental anguish— _no, this can’t be, no, no, I can’t be, this can’t be, bested by a healer and a woman, dear God, no, this can’t be it, Serge is dead and I can’t, I can’t, Serge is dead and I’m not, not, this can’t be real._

"Get away from me!" Laurent shrieked, as he continued to struggle helplessly against his fiancée’s magic. “Let me go, God damn—” His words were choked off by weeping. It made the sick feeling of mingled shame and horror surge up in Mirk, causing him to gag and waver on his feet.

“I won’t let you kill yourself over something stupid!” Yvette shouted back at him, the flames growing brighter still, pinning Laurent’s arms behind his back.

Mirk and Yvette’s eyes met, just for a moment, but it was long enough for Mirk to know what he had to do. Finding it impossible to simply turn and walk away, he first reached into his cloak and took out his purse, tossing the whole of it at Yvette’s feet. In her distress, she didn’t notice it.

“Please, make sure he’s healed,” Mirk said, though he wasn’t sure his whisper would be heard at all above the crackling flame and Laurent’s cursing.

"Go to hell! The both of you!" Laurent spat. 

Shuddering, Mirk slipped off into the night, leaning on his staff in order to draw himself up and walk away tall and straight, more like a man filled with the fire of triumph rather than the dark bile of shame.

After everything that had happened, the least he could do was give Laurent that much of his pride back.

\- - -

Mirk had only limped for a few minutes on his own before Genesis chose to reappear out of the shadows. He stumbled to a stop, breathing hard, and braced himself on the staff as he looked up at the commander. It was hard to tell what he was thinking—he had that forcibly blank expression on his face that had become so common as of late. Mirk made himself smile, struggling to switch his mind and mouth back to English.

"I suppose your lessons paid off, messire. Although methinks I was a bit silly about things at the end."

Genesis stared at him for a time, then sighed, the blank mask falling away to reveal the tiredness underneath. 

Mirk heaved himself into a shrug. It was a bad idea; the motion made his head bob too much, making him wince and give an involuntary yelp. It wasn't as bad as it had been in Tours, but he still recognized that he was caught in a similar emotional tailspin, his own shame and horror at feeling happiness at Seigneur Montigny’s death feeding off the rage and pain from Laurent that his mind had been steeped in all through the fight and turning into a terrible vortex inside him, growing worse instead of fading. Emir had called it kindling sickness. A side-effect of being too empathic and throwing himself into things without adequate pain blockers. 

Finally, Genesis spoke. "You are...shaking."

Mirk tried again to push his face into a smile. It didn't work. "It's cold."

His head ached too much for him to process what was happening immediately—as it had the last time, the kindling was making him more and more sensitive, now to the point that he could feel the emotions of the people in the houses lining the street. The next thing he was aware of was Genesis putting his greatcoat on his shoulders, wrapping it around him like a blanket. 

"Oh, no...no, it's all right...you don't..."

Ignoring him, Genesis tugged at the coat until it was even and flat enough for his liking. Then, before he could come up with another protest, he picked him up. Once the dizziness cleared, Mirk realized that, though he had picked him up, he wasn't moving. He was staring at him again, thinking.

"This is...similar to the Tours incident, I believe," he said, slowly.

Though he wanted to deny it, wave him off and tell him not to worry, all he could do was nod.

"Ah. I have...developed a contingency plan for...such an occasion. If you would...look in the coat's front pocket, it will provide you with...the needed materials."

His fingers were so cold from the rain and the growing chill that it took him a few tries to find the pocket and slip his hand inside. It felt like something met him halfway, a slip of paper pressed into his palm before he could reach the pocket's bottom. Mirk pulled it out, examining it in the street's faint ambient light. The paper was long and thin, covered with markings so small that he doubted he'd be able to read them, even in full daylight. "What is it?"

"A sort of...draining spell. It pulls any imbalance or foreign substance from the...relatively closed system it is placed on. Although I haven't had the opportunity to test it properly, if you...wrap the paper around a limb, it should draw out excess emotion. Not a complete fix, as it has its limits, but it worked to...remove a minor seasonal illness from K'aekniv, in any case."

Mirk gave a weak laugh, struggling to get it wrapped around his wrist. "Was that what you made it for? To keep Niv from sneezing on you?"

Grumbling, Genesis shifted his weight onto one arm, plucking away the paper with his freed hand and neatly securing it around his wrist for him. "I see no reason not to use a spell for two purposes...if it is effective on both." He resettled him across both arms, taking care not to jostle him, and set off once more.

It was a subtle effect, but as he lay with eyes closed, listening to the distant sound of more raucous neighborhoods that had finally interrupted the hellish silence that had fallen over the noble houses and gardens, he could feel the mixture of negative emotions swirling inside him draining away. Once he felt well enough to open his eyes again, the first thing he saw was snow spiraling down on him from above. 

"Is it autumn or winter?" he mumbled to himself.

Genesis must have heard him. "It's melting upon...reaching the ground."

"Mmph, yes, the earth is too warm...still not winter..." Though he felt better, it came with a sort of vagueness, a distance that he found disconcerting. He tried to focus, studying his surroundings. While he hadn't been watching the shadows had gathered around them, curling up to the level of Genesis's shoulders. It was a barrier of some sort, to keep him from picking up too many outside emotions—if he extended his senses out a fraction, he could feel nothing around him but the familiar, comforting static of the ever-shifting chaos. Mirk glanced up at the commander. He looked down at the same time; he must have felt him shifting. 

That time, it wasn't so hard to find a smile for him. "Thank you, _messire_."

Genesis made a dismissive noise, going back to scanning the street ahead.

"You're always thinking of me."

"Rather, I would suggest...that I have a practical preference for keeping you among the living."

Laughing, leaning his head against him, Mirk closed his eyes once more. That was the best declaration of friendship a person could expect from Genesis. Truly, Mirk thought that if the commander could ever be inspired to love someone, telling the object of his affections that he found their presence tolerable would be as much as they could get out of him as far as a confession of his feelings was concerned.

He didn't know what did it. Genesis’s subtle compliment? The cold he could feel stealing over him, from fingers and toes in toward the heart, whisking away what little comfort he'd regained? The spell clearing his mind of the night's accumulated pain and anxiety, even making the shame fade? Perhaps the sudden void in his mind had given all the fragmented observations and musings he’d collected over the past month room to fit themselves into an order he could finally understand. As autumn claimed him, the idea did as well, turning the last real breath he'd draw until the cold faded away into a startled gasp.

The way that he had found himself sneaking sideways glances at him for the whole of that evening, hard-pressed to look away from his tall, thin frame, outlined so well by the silver trim of his uniform. The unfamiliar, dizzying emotions. The warmth that came with them. The sinking of his heart when he'd woken up and found him gone. The relief and giddiness that came when he’d rested the cool, reassuring weight of his hand atop his head, telling him in his own silent way that he wasn’t upset with him, that he valued him.

He needn't have ever concerned himself with the remote possibility of Genesis, in an act totally contrary to his nature, becoming infatuated with him.

Mirk felt as if his mind was broken, sending him the wrong signals while still insisting they were the truth. First the feeling of satisfaction that had come upon hearing that judgment had been done, the horrifying realization that he was capable of being happy that someone else was dead. And now this feeling, the sudden quavering that he wanted to push down and away but that he didn’t have the strength to banish, the realization that what he had thought was friendship was actually something twisted and dark that he’d never even entertained the prospects of before, not consciously. He wasn’t supposed to feel want like that. He _couldn’t_ be feeling it. It had to be some sort of cold-induced hallucination, an illusion created by his desperate need to escape the other things he’d been sunk in that night—the rage, the fear, the shame. But it felt real all the same, the urge to wrap his arms around Genesis and cling to him, to lose himself in the solid, indisputable reality of feeling their bodies touch, to clear away all the confusion with the overwhelming rush of genuine desire, desire impossible to fake, desire turned to physical reality then turned back to the emotional security of being wanted, both body and mind.

If he could have moved, he'd have chosen that moment to slap himself in the face.

_Holy Mother, what in God's name is happening to me?_


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genesis attempts to take care of Mirk while he's sick. Then Yule gets involved. Then things get...specious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh! So long without an update! I apologize, really. I'll try not to be so long next time. I also apologize if this chapter is kinda rusty...I started it months ago, but only just now managed to finish it. TT____TT
> 
> Thank you for bearing with me!

Most years, his autumnal illness was a bother. That year, it was going to be nothing short of torturous. 

On the inside, he was a panicked mess—he desperately wanted to bolt away from Genesis and hide himself in one of the places in the City of Glass that the commander refused to go, the Star and Rifle or the plague ward, until he got a handle on himself. He needed a distraction. He needed a _drink_. Instead, Mirk was trapped in his motionless body, unable to do so much as blink. His motionless body that was, at present, being carried off to the healers’ dormitory by said commander with an almost absurd amount of delicacy and care, which was doing nothing to help stem the flow of bewildering, alien thoughts that he suddenly found coursing through his head.

Though he was stuck staring straight up into the clouded-over night sky, he knew they’d come to the dormitory by the way Genesis shifted his hold on him, transferring his weight over to one arm as he felt him ascend the front stairs. Mirk heard the snick of the front door opening. He wondered whether Genesis had even noticed that he’d gone off, or if he’d just assumed that he’d fallen asleep. Mirk hoped he was oblivious enough not to realize that autumn had overtaken him. That way, the commander was likely to tuck him into bed and be done with him. If he realized that he’d fallen ill, there was the chance that he might try to take care of him. And Mirk didn’t think his heart could bear watching days of Genesis’s jumbled attempts at kindness.

He was carried inside. Though the wind stopped, the chill that consumed him didn’t lessen. If anything, it grew worse as he was moved from the lobby to the stairwell, from the stairwell to the hall, from the hall into his room. Mirk remembered locking the door—he’d even done it twice, in his nervousness—but that didn’t keep Genesis from going in. It was an unsettling reminder of how far he’d opened his life to him. True, he’d never seen a locked door stop Genesis in the past, but he generally didn’t make it a habit to use his uncanny ability to move through the shadows to barge into other people’s bedrooms. Not unless he’d been scolded dozens of times about being welcome at all hours and in all situations.

 _How could I have missed it?_ he thought to himself, miserably, as he felt Genesis pause. _Yule pointed it out, even. Yule! And he always assumes the worst about Genesis._

“Ah. I…see it is…that time,” he heard Genesis say. A moment later, Genesis leaned far enough over him to come within range of his limited vision, looking down at him with a sort of academic concern that would have made Mirk shiver, had he been capable of it. “It…had occurred to me that this should be coming. I’ve made the appropriate…preparations.”

Mirk’s stomach flip-flopped. Ordinarily, he would have been cheered by the fact that Genesis remembered what happened to him every autumn, but now, now that everything had changed, Mirk found the attentiveness upsetting. Genesis _never_ kept personal details like that in mind. _Ever._ And yet, there he was, being set carefully down onto his bed, like Genesis was taking into consideration how very fragile the change in seasons left his body, how being jarred or dropped too suddenly could break his limbs and make him bleed when he was in that condition. 

The commander seemed oddly proud of this action, of the ones that followed: after putting him in bed, Genesis undid his cloak and coat (undoubtedly hanging both of them up neatly afterwards), took off his shoes, and wrapped him meticulously up in multiple quilts. Mirk was glad his body wouldn’t betray how it all made him feel, wobbly and scrambled up inside, simultaneously pleased and guilty. He was also glad that it still didn’t occur to Genesis that most sane people didn’t go to sleep wearing even more clothing than they walked about outside in. Once Mirk was settled in, Genesis leaned over him again, a blank look on his face, the one that always came over him when he was deep in thought, shut entirely off from the rest of the world. 

Mirk willed himself not to react, not to move, even though he knew full well he didn’t have to even try to in order to succeed. Even the lightest, easiest autumns he could remember left him dead and gray for two or three days, at least. Though he was only halfway certain he could project in that state, despite being unshielded from the emotions of others, he tried it anyway, ignoring the fact that Genesis didn’t pick up on projections even when the best empaths tried to influence his actions.

_…go away…go away…please, just go away…_

The commander made a pensive noise, frowning.

_…please, please, for once, just go away…you always want to go away…every…other…time…_

“What…was it…that accursed woman said…”

Desperate, Mirk found himself resorting to prayer. _Holy Mary, Mother of God, please, I know I don’t deserve your attention, but please,_ please _make him leave…_

His voice took on a flat tone, as he recited from memory, still staring at him. “He’s perfectly awake, even if he doesn’t look it. Now, I know…that…you wouldn’t mind being left alone for a…week…but…” The commander’s frown deepened.

It was odd enough hearing Genesis cough up word for word things that Mirk could clearly remember being said by his mother, but it was worse to hear him give a resigned sigh as he backed out of his line of sight. A moment later, there was the scraping of his chair being moved. The commander didn’t move back into view, but he heard the chair crack in protest when he sat down in it. Mirk almost felt glad to be guilty over something else for a moment, guilty that he’d never thought to go find a chair that actually fit the bodies of his (mainly) much taller friends. 

His stomach lurched. Tall. _Tall._ That was part of it, wasn’t it? Part of what made those horrible feelings surge up in him. There was something so inherently _appealing_ in it; it was one of those things, a part that completed the whole, a part that the whole wouldn’t make any sense without. It made Mirk uncomfortable. The fact that Genesis leaned over him again, face annoyed now (probably about the chair), made it worse, made him squirm internally. “If I must stay…then I will stay. One…must…attend to their duties. But…that aside…” His face disappeared, though he continued to talk to himself. “What did that woman do…aside from making those…horrid…lace tablecloths…”

The mental image of Genesis tatting lace would have been enough to make him laugh, if he could. It would be almost endearing, seeing him scowling down at a snarled ball of thread, cursing it in his clacking first language, beyond frustrated by his inability to do something that his mother (and he, for that matter) could do without even watching…Genesis leaned back over him, his frown gone and replaced with one of his nightmare attempts at a smile. He’d come up with a book from somewhere. It was large. Black. Mirk wasn’t surprised.

“If you are to be…abed for some time, I think you would be…served best by putting the hours to a constructive purpose. I recall that…you have been having difficulties with summoning objects. It’s a matter easily corrected. If you understand the theory better, your skills will improve. Dreher has been...considered the expert on the topic for the past three centuries. I find his work adequate enough for the beginner.”

Genesis leaned back out of his line of sight. There was the sound of paper rustling. The commander began to read.

“If one seeks to understand how to call to themselves objects with the greatest precision, one must begin by understanding the movement of the smallest structures of the smallest things. Invisible to the human eye, there exist small particles enchanted by elemental magicks in the following distribution: 3 percent chaotic air, 5 percent chaotic water—”

Internally, Mirk sighed.

The dull subject matter was enough to put him to sleep soon, true. But more than the words, what led him down into the dim, twilight state between ignorance and awareness was the sound of his voice. When he read, his speech became even and clear, uninterrupted by his characteristic pauses. It made the best qualities of it come through. The low, precise tones, the cadence that was somehow both commanding and comforting, the faint hissing at the ends of words that he never could quite control…

He could listen to Genesis forever, even if all he was talking about was arcane magic that mattered to no one but him.

\- - -

Mirk was unsure of how much time had passed by then. It had to have been a few days, at least, judging by the number of times he’d slipped in and out of awareness. Sometimes Genesis had come and gone by the time he returned to himself. Other times, he was there both when he drifted off and when he woke up again—reading, grumbling over the blankets or something else that wasn’t quite to his liking, or only sitting beside him, his presence clear enough to Mirk despite the commander’s habit of sinking back into the shadows when he was sitting still, fading out of sight. It was the smell. Lilies. Gunpowder. Metal. Mirk felt ashamed for being able to recognize it so quickly. And for the relief that washed over him when he did, relief at knowing that he hadn’t somehow divined Mirk’s terrible thoughts about him.

It was a foolish thought. Genesis couldn’t read thoughts or faces to save his life. Mirk couldn’t even _make_ faces, not in the state he was in. But the fear was still there, and it still evaporated every time that the commander came back to him.

Genesis wasn’t there when the tapping started. Someone was at the door, moving quick from knocking to rattling the handle. Mirk didn’t know whether to be relieved that someone had noticed he was gone or annoyed by how long it’d taken them to realize he was missing.

The door continued to rattle. Then there was banging against it. He could see it bowing inward on its hinges—Genesis was always careful to turn his head off to one side when he left so that he wouldn’t be stuck staring at the ceiling for an indeterminate number of hours, instead leaving him with the equally dull sight of his desk, dresser, and door. Mirk tried to will his limbs to move, but his body was still lifeless, beyond his control. The banging got louder. Mirk attempted to force out a greeting, a hello, any sound at all, but he couldn’t. Autumn’s hold on him was still complete. 

With a splintering sound, the door popped open, dim light spilling in from the hall beyond. Mirk heard cursing, saw a dark figure slapping at the wall until it managed to find the touch rune that activated the magelights. Mirk wanted to close his eyes, but even his eyelids were unwilling to cooperate with him. The sudden brightness hurt like someone was sticking needles into his eyeballs.

“Oh…hell.”

It was Yule. The other healer rushed over to him, dropping to his knees at his bedside and scrabbling under the covers for his arm. When he caught it, he cursed again. And again, after he managed to pull his arm out of the quilts and take his pulse. He leaned over him, peering into his eyes, straightening his head so that Mirk found himself looking up at the ceiling as Yule smoothed his palm over his forehead. Mirk could feel the panic running through the other healer, bright and hot and insistent, could feel Yule’s thoughts whirring as he tried to think of any sort of poison or disease that could leave him in such a state. When he was frozen in autumn, Mirk’s mental shielding didn’t work. Yule’s fear hurt him, made his body ache like he was being pummeled by physical blows. 

“Mirk? Mirk, can you hear me?”

Of course he could. He couldn’t do anything about it, but he could. He couldn’t even alter the track of his gaze to indicate to him that he was still conscious. Yule moved out of his range of vision. Mirk felt Yule pull the blankets off. His heart sank at how it dispelled what little heat he was able to make, leaving him dead cold again. Mirk felt him begin to slip his arms under his knees and back.

“Why…are you here?”

Immediately, his arms drew back. He heard Yule scramble to his feet. The feelings radiating off him shifted abruptly from panic into rage that hit him like a slap in the face. “You idiot! What the hell is wrong with you? The man’s dying, and you come in here with goddamn heat bottles? Jesus!”

“He is not dying. This happens annually. It is a…matter of little concern.”

“Like hell it isn’t! He barely has a pulse! He’s cold as a corpse!”

“It is autumn.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

He heard Genesis—and he was certain it was him, no one else talked like that, low and with pauses littering his phrases as he tried to find the right words—enter the room and shut the door. “He is...connected to the Earth more strongly than most. When…the seasons change…he does as well.”

“I’ve been here twenty years and I’ve never, never seen anyone look like that, Earth mage or not. Why the hell are you keeping him here? He needs to be in the infirmary!”

“I…disagree.”

“Oh, right, thanks for your insight, _doctor_. Now get out of my way so I can get him out of here.”

“…no.”

“You want to fight?”

“Not especially. But I would…advise you against it. You would lose.”

After a long pause, he heard Yule stomp aside, cursing under his breath. Genesis continued on his way toward the bed. Distantly, Mirk was able to feel a touch of warmth in his limbs as Genesis placed things under his feet, his hands. Those had to be the heat bottles that Yule was angry about.

“I have seen this process done before. I…am certain enough of how his condition should be dealt with.”

He heard Yule come over, saw a flicker of his dark curls at the edge of his vision. The other healer’s rage had faded slightly, but it was still there, roiling and dark, causing a steady ache in Mirk’s mind like he’d put his hand down on a hot stove. “Fine. What are the bottles for? You’re supposed to warm the middle, not his goddamn fingers and toes.”

“It’s…not similar to the treatment of a human that has been chilled. It is more like a plant. The…delicate areas require more warmth so as not to become frozen. To…put it in a proper comparison…the leaves die and fall away, but the trunk remains.” He leaned over Mirk then, well aware of his limitations, knowing that he felt better when people stepped into his line of sight when they talked at him. Genesis looked more exhausted than usual, ragged in slight ways that were imperceptible except to those who knew him well—his hair was done up a bit unevenly, the collar of his uniform shirt sagged, the tiniest pinpricks of something darker than black were scattered across its usually immaculate front. Mirk wondered what had happened to him while he was out. “Incidentally, I have…been looking into the matter of the ears. I believe I have found a solution.” 

“Are you talking to him, or to me?”

“Him.” Genesis moved back and, much to Mirk’s surprise and relief, he felt warmth on his ears. They were the worst part of autumn. He didn’t like to cover them, as it deprived him of one more sense he didn’t want missing, but if he didn’t, they usually became frozen and ached horribly for weeks after he woke up. Once both ears were seen to, Genesis leaned back into sight. “They…are stones that are…spelled to be warm, affixed with a manner of clips. I…presented the problem to a man in specialized weaponry and he made them.”

“He can hear you?”

“Yes. And see, if you are in front of him. It is…best not to leave him looking at the ceiling, however,” he said, as he turned his head back toward the rest of the room so that he could see more of them, Yule with his arms crossed tight over his chest, Genesis unmoved by this, as always. “He prefers to have definite objects to look at.”

Yule’s ire was fading, replaced by a calmer sort of annoyance, though the expression on his face was still far from approving. “How do I know you’re not making this shit up?”

“What reason would I have to see him dead? He’s of much more worth alive.”

Yule fell silent at this, though he continued to tap one foot as he thought. Mirk could feel his thoughts flickering about, though the healer’s shielding was a bit too thick for him to hear them. The annoyance was battling with a sort of resignation, along with a twinge of surprise. Genesis dismissed him and went about tucking the quilts back around Mirk in the intricate layers that he preferred and that Mirk had memorized by then—four quilts covering him at different angles, then a fifth bundling everything together. It must have been one of Genesis’s odd, almost superstitious habits, the ones that told him that everything must be done in fives and that things weren’t right if they were misaligned, even slightly. Genesis drew back and studied him for a moment, eyes flicking over him critically. He leaned back in to smooth out a lock of his hair that apparently hadn’t passed inspection.

“Why are you keeping him in here instead of taking him to the infirmary?”

“In this state, his shields are weakened. The…infirmary is far too…volatile. This room has been spelled securely. It is a rare instance, but, when he is like this, it is…best, I feel, for me to see to him myself.”

“Oh?”

“Your mental shielding…is insufficient to make up for his abilities. Unlike…your kind, I do not project.”

Yule sighed. “Oh. Right. You don’t. Freak of nature, you.”

Genesis was unmoved by this comment. “So…you see, I am taking the only rational course of action. If you had been sensible and come to me personally instead of…barging in without thinking, this could have been settled without tempers becoming heated.”

“It could have been settled without anyone getting angry if you’d acted like a normal human being and come told us why he wasn’t showing up for his shifts.”

“I…was not aware that this was protocol.”

“It’s not. It’s called common sense. Apparently you haven’t got any.”

Which was fair enough, Mirk thought. It most likely didn’t occur to Genesis that people might be worried about him. Much like it didn’t occur to the commander that people worried about him when he disappeared for days on end without warning.

“I will take this into consideration next year.” 

Yule looked back down at him—Mirk could feel him trying to shore up his shielding, but it didn’t completely block out the pity inside him. “So…what do you do with him? Just leave him here? Alone?”

“In…some instances. It is impractical for me to halt the entirety of my work to see to him.”

“And in…other instances?”

Genesis frowned at Yule’s crude imitation of him. “I see to him.”

“What? You just stand here and look at him? That’s creepy, even for you.”

The commander seemed to be debating with himself about something, his frown growing. After a few moments, he pulled the book he’d been reading to him out of his coat. “Until…you barged in, I had been…planning to…entertain him thusly.”

Yule leaned over to read the title of the book, grimacing nearly as badly as Genesis did at the healer’s intrusion into his personal space. “ _The Physics and Technicalities of Summoning Magicks?_ Christ, I’d rather be stuck looking at the ceiling alone for a week than be forced to listen to that.” He had a point, Mirk thought. He’d been tired of the book from the beginning, but if Genesis was going to go out of his way to read to him, he wasn’t going to complain about his choice of literature when he regained his strength. It might have made him never be so considerate again.

“Here.” Yule went rummaging in the sleeves of his robes until he pulled out a book of his own, forcing it into one of Genesis’s hands. “Take this. You’re welcome.”

Mirk felt a little apprehension—Yule’s taste in novels was even more specious than his, and he’d grown up taking books out of his mother’s collection of romantic stories. “… _Together in the Grey Rain?_ ”

“What? It’s got a prince in it. Princes are sort of military, right?”

“I…have a suspicion than combat techniques and traditions are not the focus of this work.”

“You’re right. They’re not. It’s actually _interesting_. Anyway, he’ll like it more than what you’re reading him, so give it a try.”

Genesis paged through the cheap, paper-bound novel, scowling like he was considering throwing it at Yule instead of reading it. “If I…am to read a novel, I would prefer for it to be one of some intellectual merit. This hardly seems…improving.”

“When someone’s sick, you do what _they_ want to do, not what _you_ want to do,” Yule shot back, smugly. “So take it. Just give it to him when he wakes up to give back to me.”

With a disapproving shake of his head, Genesis closed the book. “…fine.”

Mirk was surprised. Surprised and more than a bit wary, considering the book’s title. Was Yule trying to play a joke on him? Or, worse, was he trying to play a joke on _Genesis_?

Yule’s voice cut into his thoughts. “You’d best take good care of him, _comrade_. It’s never a good idea to make the healers angry. Since we know how to put you together…we also know exactly how to take you apart.”

Genesis shot Yule a dark look, as he left the room. “I…am terrified, I assure you.”

Mirk heard the door close. Genesis looked back and forth between him and the book a few times, seeming at a loss. Eventually, resigned, he pulled the chair back from his desk and sat down beside him. Genesis really had to be hurting. Usually he never listened to people’s advice. Especially when said advice was coming from someone like Yule. Or had he decided it’d be best to be nice to him, to comfort him during his illness? 

Doubtful.

“I would prefer to continue your studies. But the healer…would have slightly more expertise on what…is best for patients.” Sighing heavily and fixing a blank look on his face, Genesis began to read. 

The book didn’t start out too badly. It was odd hearing him read a novel, using the sort of flowery language that he detested. But once he began to get into the flow of the text, his tone evened out—he wasn’t very good at putting inflection in the right places, but his long pauses disappeared, like they usually did when he read. The story itself was rather predictable, in Mirk’s opinion: the old cliché of the haughty prince going about adventuring. After a time, the requisite damsel with flashing green eyes and luxurious, flowing blond locks and a pleasant, submissive demeanor appeared. 

Mirk knew it was going to go bad when the author started dropping hints about the noblewoman possessing a dark, unspeakable secret. One that involved her running from the prince when he tried to kiss her hand. One that involved her refusing her chambermaids entrance while she prepared herself for balls. She could have had some sort of deformity or horrible scar, Mirk supposed, but he was too familiar with how difficult it was to get into Court gowns without two or three sets of helping hands to believe that. Only something truly upsetting would separate a noblewoman from her ladies. 

Genesis must not have been processing what he was reading when he got to the bit with the two of them standing on the hill shrouded by the titular grey rain. He must have been too exhausted to care, thinking about whatever else was troubling him and had made him look so run-down. It made it all seem cruel rather than joking, unfair and unkind.

His voice remained flat as he read, as the author’s hinting shifted to straight-out telling. “‘Alas,’ she said to him, ‘I cannot accept your love, though it be noble and true. For I am not the woman you think me to be.’ ‘How so?’ the Prince, aghast at the mere thought of losing his love, cried out. ‘You can do no wrong in mine eyes, my Lady, for your heart, I have seen, is true and sure.’ The lady hung her head, ashamed. ‘I have deceived you, my Prince. I am no noblewoman. I am as much a lord as you are. Only I have been exiled from my kingdom for my unnatural ways, for wearing the dress of a lady instead of the armor of a lord.’”

Mirk would have yelped and grabbed the book away from him, if only he could have moved. Now he _really_ knew where the novel was going. It was the sort of story Yule reveled in, the kind that could get a man locked up if the wrong person found it. At least, in normal society. The K’maneda, Mirk suspected, wouldn’t care. 

But Genesis, _he_ certainly would care, with his horror at talking about anything more personal than magical theory. If he’d been thinking about it. Instead, he continued to read, either too tired to care about the story’s sudden romantic bent or genuinely not noticing it. Mirk doubted that even the commander could be that oblivious. “‘The Prince stepped forward, taking him up in both arms. ‘I care not! For the light of your soul is what wooed me, and it makes me love you still. Your eyes are still as beautiful to me as the verdant hills of my beloved land, your voice the song of all the choirs of angels! Come! Lift up your head! Will you refuse my embrace?’ Without hesitating any longer, the secret lord no more afraid of his true nature, lifted his head and met his pink and parted lips, exchanging a kiss of the most ardent passion. Then, in a whirlwind of love most true, the Prince swept the Lord off his feet and took him back to his chambers, whereupon he endeavored to remove…’”

Finally, Genesis noticed where the story was going. He stared down at the book, his expression growing eerily calm and cold. As he flipped through the upcoming pages, slowly, his face somehow drained of what little color it had. Apparently encountering something particularly upsetting, he slapped the book shut, then made it vanish into a fine black dust that he brushed disdainfully from his hands. Mirk could hear his teeth grinding.

“…I…will return. Momentarily.”

Genesis stood, hissing at the way his knees cracked. His eyes had gone black. Rather than leaving the room properly, Genesis sunk back into the shadow cast by his dresser and vanished. 

Mirk was left with no option other than staring at the chair Genesis had been sitting in and wondering. 

Did the novel bother him because it was about two men? Or did he just hate all forms of intimacy, regardless of the details?

The latter was more likely. But the former was what kept him in the present instead of allowing him to vanish into the safety of unconsciousness, cursing himself and cursing whatever had been distracting Genesis and, above all, cursing Yule for having left him in such a miserable position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure the text of that terrible novel is more 1800s-grade romance writing instead of 1700s (they tended to get right to business more often, as it were, and in the 1700s the whole novel thing had just started happening), but...magic gay romance for gay magicians? They're ahead of the curve? Or something.
> 
> Also, the plot of the second half is pretty contrived, on second reading, but there is a reason Gen's too tired to pay attention to something even that bad, which will come up in the next section. I promise.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The healers have a new patient. Mirk has so many feels. K'aekniv somehow has even more feels. Gen has no feels at all, which is generally a bad sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update this, folks. I just got really stuck on this chapter...anyway. I hope it was worth the wait?

“Oh dear...what’s happened?”

Mirk hadn’t needed to search the infirmary to find the others — his own curiosity led him to them. The feeling of dread and suffering coming from the far end of the long-term ward was tangible from the building’s front doorway. Instinctively, Mirk went searching for the source, the negative emotions increasing step by step until Mirk was forced to stop, his exhausted mental shielding insufficient to allow him to go any further. He’d ducked into a patient room to gather his thoughts only to find it occupied — inadvertently, he’d found Yule and Danu, along with Commander Emir. Yule and Emir were huddled on the edge of the room’s bed and Danu was standing near the foot end of it, under a shielding spell commanded by a tall Russian healer named Dima who he’d only met once or twice. Usually he was on the battlefield with the combat healers, shielding them so that they could do their work without needing to move fighters too injured to carry without risk of killing them. His extremely poor empathic abilities allowed him to thrive in a combat position. Yule, from his place beside Emir, waved him closer. Without looking, Dima weakened the far edge of the barrier just long enough for Mirk to slip through.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Yule asked, scowling at him. It was nothing personal, Mirk knew. The fatigue coming off the others gave him an instant headache, spots dancing across his vision. Though his legs threatened to give out, he got to the bed before they could, flopping down onto it with a wince.

“I was feeling better, so I came to see what I could do to help,” Mirk replied, once he’d regained his bearings.

“There’s nothing any of us can do,” Danu sighed. She was shifting from foot to foot beside Dima, arms folded — she was another of the weakest empaths in the division, though because of her Death-based magic she was stationed at the infirmary rather than in the field. “It’s too much even for me.” 

“What’s causing this?” Mirk asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction the mental agony had been coming from.

“We haven’t actually seen the patient yet,” Emir said, shaking his head. “However, the girl who came in with him says he’s a young angelic male. Defected from the Empire.”

“Defected?”

“It might be better to say that she defected and took the patient with her.” A wary look came onto Emir’s face, one Mirk had never seen on the commander before. “She…says...he’s related to Emmanuel.”

Emir’s expression became immediately understandable. Mirk could remember the look of disgust that came onto his father’s and Aker’s faces any time that Emmanuel was mentioned. His father was too reserved to express his thoughts on him, but Aker never hesitated to make it clear to anyone who would listen that he thought Emmanuel was a monster. Aker had never shared any real details in front of him, but he had gone so far as to say that the only reason Emmanuel refused to take a Host commander position was because he could get away with killing more people if he kept a lower profile. “Related?”

“That’s as much as she would explain.”

“Which isn’t helping anyone,” Yule interjected. “How are we supposed to fix this mess if we don’t know what the hell we’re dealing with?”

“We make do,” Emir said, tone flat.

“Oh, right. I forgot. Everyone always gets away with making us work three times harder than anyone else.”

“Complaining will get you nowhere.”

“How long has this been going on?” Mirk asked, cutting off Yule’s retort to Emir before he could launch into it.

“A week,”’ Danu said. “That’s why we called Dima back. We’re all too tired to hold the emotions back long enough to get anywhere near him anymore.”

Mirk sighed. “That’s a long time to feel this awful…”

“Apparently he’s not physically dying, so, there’s that,” Yule said, turning his scowl back on Mirk. “And at least we have your _friend_ to help deal with it. Not that he’s a good judge of when to get help for an injury or not.”

“What do you mean?”

“...I...did not...expect any gratitude from you.”

Mirk’s heart lept into his throat at the voice from the doorway — Genesis. He fixed his eyes down on the floor to keep from looking up at him, worried he might start staring if he allowed himself to even glance at him. Beside him, he heard Yule groan.

“Christ! Do you just stand there behind corners waiting for people to talk about you?”

“There...is no...purpose in that.”

He couldn’t see it, but Mirk could hear it in his tone — the pauses were slightly longer, the words taking on the faintest bit more of a hissing edge. Genesis would be frowning in annoyance. He would look tired. Mirk wrapped his arms around himself, hoping no one would notice his guilt or, if someone did, that they would mistake it for aching brought on by the pain coming from down the hall. How had he not noticed it before? It was abnormal to listen to someone so closely that every nuance of their voice spoke volumes. Yet he was always doing it, he realized, searching Genesis’s blank expression and flat tone for clues to what he was feeling until he’d memorized the meaning of every slight inflection, every twitch of his lips and every waver in his gaze. Mirk supposed he’d probably convinced himself before that he was doing it because he couldn’t read Genesis’s emotions.

Now he knew better.

“...Mirk?”

He snapped to attention, giving an awkward laugh: he must have drifted off while Yule and Genesis’s argument had continued, and now Yule was staring at him, puzzled. “Oh, yes? Sorry...methinks I’m still a little tired…”

“Do you have any idea how we could use him to get the kid to stop projecting for an hour or so?” Yule asked, waving a hand back in what Mirk assumed was Genesis’s general direction. He still didn’t feel prepared enough to look at him.

"Er...what have you tried so far?"

"He closed up most of his wounds, supposedly. But that's all."

"There is...no supposedly involved," Genesis shot back. His annoyance had gotten worse. He paused before continuing, speaking even more deliberately. "The boy does...cough blood now and then, but it's...done no harm save to the sheets."

There was a heavy silence. Then all the healers, even Dima, who was ostensibly concentrating fully on the barrier, began to talk at once.

"The kid's hacking up blood and all you care about are the goddamn sheets?" Yule snapped.

"This could be very serious," Emir said.

Danu's voice went cold. The Deathly half of her magic was rising up. "Why can't you tell anyone anything?"

"Comrade, even you have to know that's trouble," Dima added.

"You have to help us heal him," Mirk protested, finally unable to keep from looking up at him. The commander looked worn down, even worse than when he'd last seen him, his already thin frame whittled down to something approaching skeletal, an odd sort of black bandaging wrapped around his palms, continuing up his wrists and under his shirtsleeves. Instantly, his worry for the health of the unseen empath shifted to worry for both him and Genesis — there couldn't be anything good under the bandages, just like there couldn't be anything good in the boy's chest that would make him hack up blood. 

Mirk felt even worse when he saw the strange expression cross Genesis's face, something between a rigid smile and a grimace as he picked, business-like, at some invisible speck of lint on the bandages covering his left palm. He'd never seen that expression before. It made him uneasy. But at least it cleared his head some: regardless of what his desires were, Mirk had a duty to help, and that counted double when it came to Genesis, who no one else seemed to have the ability or inclination to look after. He couldn't let any feelings on his part get in the way of that. " _Messire_ , you have to have some idea. You always do."

"You shouldn't humor him," Yule grumbled.

"Stop it," Mirk hissed back at him under his breath, despite knowing that no matter how quiet a tone he spoke in, Genesis would hear him anyway.

Genesis sighed. "There is...one thing."

"What is it?" Emir asked, before any of the rest of them could.

It looked like it was difficult for Genesis to force the words out. "I...may...be able to...bind back the child's magic."

Yule sighed. "It's harsh, but it'd work."

"It's less risky than anything else I can think of at the moment," Emir confirmed.

"There is more risk in it than either of you appreciate," Genesis snapped in a tone close to a growl, the unfamiliar half-smile half-grimace expression coming onto his face again, though he quickly forced himself back to his customary blankness. "I will...only put it on him for an hour. And...I'll need K'aekniv."

"Niv?" Dima asked, glancing over at Genesis, surprised. "What, to hold the boy down?"

"I'll need more of his feathers," Genesis grumbled, mostly to himself. "Fortunately, he...seems to have an...unlimited supply. However, I...believe I may require...all of him to be present for this spell to be effective. Perhaps...you will have more success in removing him...from the Star and Rifle than I did. Mirk.”

Something fluttered in his chest at hearing the commander say his name. It made Mirk feel a bit resentful. “What happened to Niv?”

Genesis snorted. “His latest...true love has left him. As expected.”

“Oh, poor Niv! He really did like her.”

“Hmph. Good...riddance, nonetheless.”

Mirk sighed.“She wasn’t very nice, no.”

Though the oppressive air of fatigue and terminal annoyance didn’t quite lift from Genesis at this, the commander still seemed satisfied to hear him agree. “Go inform him of this.”

“You can’t say that sort of thing to someone who’s upset, _messire_.” 

“It...is the truth.”

Yule teetered to his feet, pausing to summon up mental shielding of his own before trudging out from under the cover of Dima’s barrier. He made a pointed, vaguely offensive gesture at Genesis as he shouldered his way past him and out the door. “That’s why you’re going,” Yule said back to Mirk over one shoulder. “You’re not an asshole.”

Mirk felt he could make a good argument to the contrary. But, considering who he was being compared to, he supposed Yule had something of a point. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had any complaints about being sent out of the infirmary and off to the Star and Rifle. Even if it was still early in the morning, Mirk felt like he’d already earned himself a few drinks.

\- - -

“Little brother! You live!”

Mirk cringed. “Y-yes?”

“Good! I wish I was dead! Come have a drink!”

It was worse than Mirk had been anticipating. Though he’d heard from the other infantrymen about the depressive tailspins K’aekniv fell into when he got rejected by a woman, he somehow hadn’t imagined it involving the half angel sprawled out on the floor in front of the Star and Rifle’s poor excuse for a heat stove. Mirk got the impression that he’d been there a while. Someone had brought him pillows and a blanket. And had, in a half-hearted attempt at privacy, turned all the chairs and tables near the stove around so that they were facing away from him.

Sighing, Mirk sat down on the floor beside him. “I’m sorry, Niv.”

“Bah! Women! Who needs them? I’m fine! Fine…”

The sniffling, Mirk thought, didn’t help him make a convincing case. Not to mention the horrible feeling of abject rejection and loneliness that Mirk felt rise up in K’aekniv in response to his apology, chokingly thick. Mirk didn’t hesitate when K’aekniv waved his half-empty bottle at him — he took it and drank, probably more than he should have. At least that meant it wouldn’t be going into K’aekniv, Mirk supposed.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Mirk asked.

“There is nothing to tell. This...this... _suka_ , to me she says, “oh, K’aekniv, I am wanting of the children, why you no give?” Hah! Is your problem, I say. And she leaves! Leaves!”

Mirk sighed again. It was never a good sign when his English started to go. He took another drink before handing the bottle back to K’aekniv, who was slapping at the floor in search of it, apparently having forgotten he’d given it to Mirk. “It’s not your fault, no.”

Technically, it was his fault. Everyone knew angels had an extremely hard time conceiving — even half and quarter bloods did. Which begged the question of where he came from, but Mirk had always suspected his grandfather and his magic branch cut from the tree of life had something to do with that. The branch that was now his. But Mirk wasn’t certain how Jean-Luc had managed it, and wasn’t going to experiment with it on K’aekniv, no matter how upset he was.

“Women! There are many war orphans! Why not take one?”

K’aekniv’s emotional response was so strong that it didn’t matter that he hadn’t said the words aloud. _It’s not the same._

“If she left you over that, Niv, then methinks it may be best.”

“Yes! Who needs her? _Nikto!_ ” Again, the unspoken response, unthinkingly projected — _I do!_

Mirk searched the wall in front of him fruitlessly for an answer that might comfort the half angel. Instead, he noticed that someone had put a crate of liquor next to K’aekniv along with the pillows. Without a second thought, Mirk leaned over K’aekniv to take one.

Before Mirk could grab hold of one of them, K’aekniv lunged for him, wrapping him in a hug that knocked the wind out of him and dragged him over fully on top of the half angel, who pressed him tightly to his chest. “ _Pochemu? Pochemu imenno ya?_ ”

He didn’t understand K’aekniv, but it didn’t matter — pressed against his chest, the emotions were almost unbearable. Mirk did his best to project feelings of reassurance and comfort. He’d have hugged him back, but K’aekniv had inadvertently trapped Mirk’s arms against his sides. Though Mirk couldn’t exactly see his face, Mirk assumed from the gasping, miserable sounds K’aekniv was making that he was crying. That and his own eyes had begun to water. 

“It...it’ll be alright, Niv. None of us will leave you.”

“Lies! That _bastard_ already did!”

Mirk didn’t have to guess at who he was referring to — K’aekniv’s hopeless frustration seemed to have been focused on Genesis so many times that the emotion was tied strongly to a mental image of the commander scowling at him. “Um...well...you did make it hard for him…”

“Fuck him too! Bastard! Who needs him?”

K’aekniv’s hold on him had loosened just enough so that Mirk could pry one arm out of it. He gave his shoulder an attempt at a reassuring pat. Instead of calming him, it only made him sob harder. 

“...even...even _snegurochka_ leaves...”

“He left me too,” Mirk replied. K’aekniv’s despair had to be drawing his recent troubles out of his subconscious.

“Bastard!”

Mirk was inclined to agree. “It’ll be alright, Niv,” he said again. “I’m here, _non?_ ”

It took him a minute or two to reply, to get his crying to subside enough to do much more than mumble and curse. “...hmph...you...you’re the only good one left…”

“That’s kind of you.”

“It’s true!” K’aekniv finally released him, though only with one arm. Judging by the sound of glass clanking, it was only to get a fresh bottle of liquor.

Mirk felt a bit odd continuing to talk into K’aekniv’s chest. Though it took some effort — even when the infantryman wasn’t actually squeezing him, his arm was heavy enough to keep him from going much of anywhere — Mirk extracted his other arm from his hold, crossed the both of them on K’aekniv’s chest, and propped his chin up on them. “I’m not as nice as you think,” Mirk said, attempting to sound conceited and mostly failing.

He’d been hoping it’d make K’aekniv laugh. It did, the oppressive air of misery around him lifting for a moment, replaced with genuine surprise and amusement. “Really?” 

Mirk nodded. “ _Bien sûr_. I’m very evil. It’s just that no one suspects.”

K’aekniv laughed again. Then he pried the cork out of his fresh bottle, spat it aside, and took a long drink. Though he spilled some, it was hard to tell — he’d been crying hard enough to make his hair and the collar of his uniform blouse damp in patches. “Tell me one evil thing you did!”

“Hmm...I’ve stolen a lot of potions...”

“Healers get to take what they want!”

“...and other people’s drinks…”

K’aekniv considered this. “A little evil.”

“...I’ve hit people…”

“You always feel guilty!”

Mirk sighed. The conversation was getting more ridiculous, but it was better than lying on top of K’aekniv on the floor of the bar steeping in his misery. “I suppose I do. But I do get angry.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“And I’ve been prideful.”

K’aekniv snorted.

“Well, I have. I’m guilty of all sins.”

Thinking hard, K’aekniv took another drink. “Everyone is. Nothing special. Me, I can be bad. I kill good men,” he added, pointedly.

“That’s your job, Niv,” Mirk shot back.

“But it’s true!” A wave of regret rose up in him, though K’aekniv quickly banished it with another drink. “And now I can go back to the whores too, so, maybe you’re right. Maybe this is not all bad.”

“All the ladies have missed you very much.” That wasn’t entirely a lie either, probably. There was a rumor going around the infantry that the K’maneda’s regular prostitutes had started a collection to have the woman K’aekniv had been infatuated with assassinated. Mirk had contemplated insinuating to one of them that Genesis would be willing to do the job for free, but recognized this was nothing but a spiteful fantasy he’d feel instant regret over. Yet, considering how upset K’aekniv was…

...he’d still feel awful. K’aekniv was right; he wasn’t very good at being evil. 

K’aekniv heaved a sigh, dropping the bottle he'd drained alarmingly quickly and letting it roll away off under the nearest set of tables. “Love. Hah! It is the worst thing.”

“That’s not true,” Mirk said. To his own ears, even, it sounded like a half-hearted protest — present circumstances had made him reconsider his stance on the matter.

“You can’t say that without living it yourself,” K’aekniv replied, as he fumbled around for another bottle.

He must have made a face. K’aekniv nudged him with the arm he still had draped across his back, giving him a questioning look. Rather than replying, Mirk snatched the bottle K’aekniv had just picked up out of his hand. 

“Let’s have another drink.”

K’aekniv laughed, the faint feeling of suspicion in him vanishing. “Ah, fine. But only because you asked!”

\- - -

“We must be...quick.”

They stood at the end of the hallway, just before the bend that the injured boy’s room was behind. Dima’s shields were holding, but only just. And only because Genesis had stuck a number of K’aekniv’s feathers to the walls of the hallway, one every half foot or so, held in place with long, thin needles that curled with dark magic when stabbed into the feathers. They were making the feathers turn gray, slowly. But they also cast lines of white magic along the plaster, somehow pressing back the emotions until they were at a tolerable level under Dima’s barrier. 

“No shit,” Yule mumbled. No one replied to him.

Genesis was staring at something around the corner, thinking. Much like his emotions were hidden from all of them, the boy’s emotions seemed to be hidden from the commander, not affecting him at all. In contrast, even K’aekniv, with his weak and disorganized angelic empathy that hardly ever picked up anything over the racket of his own emotions, had taken shelter under the barrier from the child's mental agony. 

“I will require only one of...you to complete the bindings. The rest will remain outside.”

Without even turning to look at him, both Danu and Yule elbowed Mirk forward. Commander Emir was polite enough to at least ask him about it. “Mirk, do you feel well enough for this?”

No. Not at all. But he was nodding anyway, concerned by the way Genesis had begun picking at the bandages on his left palm again. “Methinks it won’t be too bad as long as Niv projects something to cover the other emotions with.”

K’aekniv let out a string of curses, his pain momentarily filling the area under the barrier and making the healers give a collective wince. Genesis had reached back and pulled a feather off his nearest wing without looking, still staring fixedly around the corner. “Damn you! That one was new!” 

Genesis didn’t reply, disappearing around the corner. Sighing, Mirk went to K’aekniv’s side, shooing away his hand, which he’d clamped over the edge of his wing. The half-angel’s wings were so poorly maintained that it took him a moment to find the shaft of the pin feather Genesis had broken off despite its bleeding. Mirk pulled the rest of it out and pressed two fingers over the follicle while it clotted. 

“You need to take better care of your wings when you molt, Niv…”

“No! He needs to stop plucking them!”

There was a muffled reply from around the corner. “The spell will need...four more blood feathers.”

“ _No!_ ”

Danu shifted over behind K’aekniv. “Do they have to bleed so much?”

“Preferably.”

“ _Bitch!_ ”

“You’re the one crying like one,” Yule said, snickering despite the flare of pain caused by Danu breaking off another one of K’aekniv’s feathers. She waved it vaguely in the direction of the corner of the hallway and a skeletal hand reached out to take it, mindful of the blood on its tip.

“Let’s pull out your fingernails! See how you like it!”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

K’aekniv grumbled to himself, folding his arms and attempting to look stoic as Danu broke off three more of his developing feathers. “It’s very nice of you to do this,” Mirk offered, in an attempt to cheer him some.

“Ha! You think I have a choice!”

“There...is always a choice. Some are merely...more rational than others.” Again, Genesis extended one hand around the corner. “Right arm.”

Miserably, K’aekniv shuffled over within Genesis’s reach, allowing him to take hold of his arm and pull him around the corner. Mirk edged to the very limits of Dima’s barrier, waiting.

“Er, let me know when I should come out,” Mirk called out, feeling like it was necessary to raise his voice to be heard through the barrier, even though he knew better. 

Despite the barrier, Mirk could feel when K’aekniv started projecting — whenever someone asked him to project on command, he always thought of the same thing, a song that was simple and catchy and that every one of the infantrymen seemed to know the words to despite speaking a dozen different languages. Mirk didn’t know the words. But he could feel the emotion attached to it loud and clear, a warm nostalgia that made him smell the sea, though he couldn’t be sure whether it was his sea, the bright blue line on the horizon that he remembered just barely being able to see out his window at home, or whether it was someone else’s, something K’aekniv remembered from far away and decades ago. It was reassuring. It helped him put his mind at a safe distance from the real. Taking a deep breath to center himself, Mirk slipped out past Dima’s barrier and around the corner.

It was a gruesome scene. It was a maze of writing in blood, all around the door to the injured boy’s room, the sigils and runes twisting in shapes that made Mirk’s stomach heave. The feathers Genesis had taken from K’aekniv were pinned around the door’s frame, connected by lines of bright white magic that wasn’t Genesis’s, to form a five-point star. Though it seemed like, somehow, the commander’s shadows were what was holding the white magic in place. Mirk had no idea what to make of it.

“It’s fine. It...does not bind you. Come...tell me how close this...angel...child...is to dying.”

Only K’aekniv’s projections kept Mirk from fainting. The nostalgia was wrapped tightly around him like a blanket, stronger now that he was out from under Dima’s magic. The small, pale boy on the bed felt sick, but Genesis somehow gave the impression of being even sicker, though his expression was flat. He’d taken the bandages off of his arms, neatly folded up his sleeves. Mirk recognized the odd, raised scars around his forearms — he’d stitched them closed enough times when they’d mysteriously reopened to nearly have their shapes memorized — but he’d never seen them like they were now, bleeding profusely, the edges of the wounds pulled back as if an invisible force was trying to rip off the rest of the skin surrounding them. Genesis seemed unconcerned by the wounds. K’aekniv was watching them closely, almost as if he expected the bloody runes to slither off his arms and make a break for the doorway. Somehow, it didn’t feel like that strange of a notion.

Swallowing hard, doing his best to control his sudden shaking, Mirk stepped through the doorway. The bands of magic felt cold but, as the commander had said, were completely harmless. He hurried to the injured boy’s bedside, forcing himself to concentrate.

Mirk knew something was wrong with the young angel within a few seconds. His breathing was uneven, too fast for an angel, too shallow. Genesis had been telling the truth, however: the boy seemed fine externally, superficial wounds neatly bandaged, a long gash on his forehead sewn shut with precise, even sutures. The commander had tried, at least. Aside from the horrible empathic projections and the paleness, the child looked healthy and normally developed. He was very young; his primaries hadn’t fully grown in yet. He’d never flown. He couldn’t be more than a twenty-year. Full-blooded angels weren’t considered young men and women until they were fifty-years. His father had been three centuries old when Mirk had been born — an angel in his prime. 

Bracing himself for the pain, Mirk reached out and placed a hand on the boy’s chest. The force of his agony was piercing, and now that Mirk was touching him, he could tell exactly where it was coming from. There was something lodged under his sternum, somehow, and it had to have been spelled by an empath. It was forcing fear and disgust out into the boy’s senses, poisoning his mind. 

Mirk coughed as he withdrew his hand, hunching over on himself and glancing over at Genesis. He was still staring at the boy with a particularly unsettling indifference. And K’aekniv was still staring at the wounds on the commander’s forearms. 

“He’s not meaning to project, _messire_. You couldn’t have felt it, but there’s something in his chest that’s magicking him into projecting.”

“Ah. How...elaborate.”

Though K’aekniv’s emotions were as strong as when Mirk had started out from under the barrier, the force of the boy’s misery was pushing Mirk bodily away from the bed. It was making him nostalgic, but not for things he wanted to remember. He forced his mind away from them, refixing on Genesis. “We’ll have to do full surgery.”

Genesis considered this with something that looked like bored, academic interest. Perhaps subconsciously, he was picking at the wounds on his left forearm, making them bleed more profusely. Mirk looked to K’aekniv, waving at him to catch his attention. “Will....euh...will he be all right?”

“I’m fine,” Genesis deadpanned, instantly.

K’aekniv debated for a time, looking back and forth between Genesis and the boy. “If I am here, yes. But you, little brother, you must leave.”

“Why?”

“I...require his presence as well. Two sources of angelic energy...hmph, yes. I’ll be...unbound...long…” Genesis trailed off. His eyes had gone black.

K’aekniv growled something at Genesis in Russian, smacking him in the shoulder with his right hand. White sparks jumped off K’aekniv’s arm. The commander didn’t respond. K’aekniv circled around Genesis, so that he was standing between him and Mirk. “Do not listen to him when he gets like this,” K’aekniv said. His projection faltered, replaced by a serious feeling, a tenseness that Mirk had never felt in the half angel before. “Me, I deal with this. You, you stay back.”

“I will...require at least one...hand,” Genesis said, still unconcerned with K’aekniv. Unconcerned with anything.

K’aekniv cursed, shaking a warning finger at Mirk. He would have thought it looked comical, had the situation not been so serious. “You listen to me! I will tell you the things to do. Him, forget him. He has no...no _stopping_ when he’s like this.” 

“What’s wrong?” Mirk asked.

“Nothing,” Genesis said.

“He’s...he’s going to have one of his...his…” Mirk was unsure whether K’aekniv was simply having trouble finding the English word, or having trouble finding words altogether. “....his _things._ This is easy for me to stop. You stay away. Don’t listen to him. Not a word!” 

The timbre of K’aekniv’s emotions made him decide to nod and step back instead of asking more questions. The infantryman was thinking hard, projections so unrestrained that Mirk could even feel twinges of what he was doing with his body, tensing each set of muscles from shoulders to legs, hard, as if checking to make sure they all worked. Mirk felt even sicker as he listened to it. He’d felt K’aekniv’s emotions when he was fighting before — his emotions were like that now, only more focused. More intense. Like he was facing a true enemy instead of just other infantrymen and demons and single-element mages.

“Go do it!” K’aekniv snapped at Genesis, turning slightly so that the commander could reach his right arm.

“...two angels...hmm…”

Before K’aekniv could bark another order at Genesis, the commander had moved. Too quick to see, too fluidly to have physically walked around K’aekniv to reposition himself between the half angel and Mirk. He reached out with one of his overlong arms and seized hold of Mirk’s right hand, business-like, pulling him closer. Something hurt. Mirk looked down at his hand. Genesis had dug the sharp points of the claw-like fingernails he usually kept spelled away into Mirk’s palm. 

Mirk was afraid. He’d expected to be. But he hadn’t expected to be more afraid for Genesis than for himself. He knew enough about emotions to tell that it was a bad sign. A sign of devotion. Beyond what was acceptable. It distracted him; emotions always caught his mind and held it more firmly than actions, especially when he was so tired and so overwhelmed. The remaining shreds of the nostalgia that K’aekniv had been projecting before gathered in his mind, enough to produce a memory. 

Devotion. His family was good at devotion. It was fueled by some magic connected to the power of the warm core of life within him, within his mother, within his grandfather, some magic that made devotion impossible to avoid. And devotion grew strong quickly in them, grew into a force like roots and iron and stone, immovable, unbreakable. His mother’s was as hard and brilliant as diamond. He’d felt it when she prayed. He’d felt it when she took his father’s arm, when she smiled up at his father and he smiled in return.

The prayer was reflexive as breathing. _Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, pray for **me** , you wouldn’t let this happen, no, you wouldn’t—_

“Mikael...and Gabriel... _stc_ , it’ll do.”

He focused in on the pain in his hand to drag his mind back to what was happening. Had Genesis just called him by his _father’s_ name? Or was that the memory addling his mind? He didn’t have time to think about it — Genesis’s spell began quickly, with one hissed and clicked command, and it roared to its full power in seconds. Genesis let go of his hand.

It was like he was holding onto a rope made of magic, one that was running through his hands fast enough to scratch them raw. Instinctively, he took hold of the magic. He looked down at his hands with his mind’s eye, blinking to clear away reality and highlight the unseen. Mirk _was_ holding onto a rope, a thick strand of the white magic that had been stretched across the room’s doorway and held in place with K’aekniv’s feathers and Genesis’s shadows. It was fighting against him. Mirk gripped it with all his strength, both mental and physical, searching for the end of it. 

At its end was Genesis. One thick loop of the white magic remained around each of his wrists. K’aekniv was holding onto the rope of magic from Genesis’s other arm, looking down at it with a disgusted expression. It was odd: though the wounds on Genesis’s forearms had been gaping and raw the last time he’d looked at him, they’d now vanished, save for a band of them around his wrists, underneath where the white magic held him. 

The commander’s voice was even, though his hissing accent was so strong it was hard to tell exactly what he was saying. “Some...slack, please. Five hands of it will do.”

The rope of magic was yanked through Mirk’s hands at his words, burning his hands until he could catch hold of it again. Though Mirk could barely see them, there were the ghostly outlines of hands held over his, much larger and stronger than his own. 

Genesis made a clicking noise, one that made him shudder. “Better. And...now the...bindings…”

With a gesture of one hand, Genesis’s shadowy magic appeared, great thick tendrils of it, so dark they sucked in the light from the room, from the magic Mirk was holding onto. Genesis gestured with his other hand and the shadows wrapped around the injured boy, hiding him fully. Mirk heard the young angel give a muffled gasp.

Genesis leaned over the bed and held out his hands. Without flinching, he used his claws to slice deep cuts into both his wrists, just above where the white magic wrapped around them. Blood ran freely from them, down into the shadows, which consumed them with a staticky noise that hurt Mirk’s ears and made his eyes water. Genesis began to speak in a language that made his stomach twist in knots and his legs tremble. Still, somehow, he could understand it. Maybe that was the point.

“ _By my blood, your light will be bound by darkness. By my blood, your heart will be bound by shadows. By my blood, you will obey._ ”

The injured boy whined — under the blanket of Genesis’s magic, he was crying.

“ _You will feel nothing. You will think nothing. You will...obey._ ”

Abruptly, the boy’s emotions, which had nearly eroded all Mirk’s mental shielding and all the protection provided by K’aekniv’s projected feelings — now deep concentration spiked with anger than burned hot against his mind — stopped. They vanished completely, leaving Mirk reeling. The rope of white magic he’d been clinging to slipped through Mirk’s hands, dragged through them rather than out of them. 

Mirk’s vision was blurred with tears. As he tried to blink them clear, he heard another voice, distant, amused. It spoke in high angelic.

_By my blade, your shadow will be bound by light. By my blade, your destruction will be bound by order. By my blade, you will obey._

K’aekniv was yelling something. Mirk was too transfixed by the other voice to hear what it was.

_Destroy them._

“ _Mirk!_ Leave!’

_You will obey._

Mirk finally thought to swipe at his eyes with his sleeve to clear them. K’aekniv was trying to shove himself between him and Genesis again. Though he beat at them with his right fist, the shadows kept him back. They had released the injured boy and were gathered around Genesis again. The ropes of light had vanished. The circles of cuts had reappeared, so deep and so many that his forearms had been completely skinned. Genesis’s body was stiff, all his muscles straining. He snarled at the amused voice: “ _get out!_ ”

_You will obey!_

The strength went out of Genesis’s body, just for a moment. He caught himself before he could fall, his inhuman grace returning to him. The commander’s head snapped around, pitch black eyes fixing on Mirk. He seemed pleased to see him.

“We’ll keep...him safe,” Genesis mumbled to himself. “Keep...forever…”

“G-gen...are...are you...?” Mirk stammered.

Genesis straightened up, brushing vaguely at the front of his shirt. The gesture only managed to smear blood all over it. “Mirk. Won’t you...come here?” 

“I…” Mirk looked past Genesis at K’aekniv. He’d summoned one of his longswords, the one that spat flame and judgement, and was hacking at the shadows. The half angel somehow still seemed very distant from them.

Genesis raised out his arms, sighing and examining them for a few moments before turning his attention back to Mirk. He was trying to smile — as always, it looked more like he was baring his teeth. There was something off about them, but Mirk was too addled to tell what it was.”You know...I’m no good...with bandages. Mirk. Come here.”

“Are you...what’s happening?” Mirk said, more to himself than Genesis.

“They...hurt. Won’t you...heal me?””

“It’s... _messire_ , this isn’t like you…”

Genesis’s smile vanished, replaced by a confused expression. “Or...are you...afraid...of me as well?”

“Oh, no! Of course not!” Concerned, not afraid. Worried.

Genesis didn’t look like he believed him. It made his heart ache. Despite himself, he took a step toward him.

“It’s all right, _messire_ , look, I don’t have any bandages, but I’ll make do with the sheets, just — ”

“ _Damn you!_ ” 

K’aekniv finally broke through the shadows, hurling aside his sword and lunging out to hit Genesis with his right fist. Shifting instantly from confused to focused, making one of his odd, hissing sounds of amusement, Genesis neatly ducked the blow and forced himself in closer to K’aekniv, clawed hands raised to slash at his neck.

Genesis managed to gouge at K’aekniv’s neck, but not to get his hands around it. K’aekniv knocked him off balance with a kick to his knee, grabbing hold of Genesis’s neck with his right hand, his whole arm crackling with sparks of light and flames. “Stop fighting!”

“ _No!_ ”

“ _Yes!_ ”

K’aekniv tightened his hand, knocking Genesis across the face with his other one. Though Mirk thought for a moment Genesis was going to recover and kick K’aekniv away, K’aekniv hit him again and Genesis's eyes rolled back, suddenly white again. He went limp; the shadows vanished. Cursing, K’aekniv dropped Genesis’s lifeless body on the floor. “Why do you do this? Every time!” 

All Mirk could do was stare at him. After a few seconds, K’aekniv noticed. He turned to him with a sigh, crossing the distance between them in one one long strike and taking him by both shoulders, gently, unlike how he’d been manhandling Genesis moments before. 

“I said not to listen,” K’aekniv said. His tone was more tired than scolding.

“...sorry…”

K’aekniv gave his shoulders a careful squeeze. “Next time, you listen to me. He’ll kill you.” 

The half angel said it with such certainty that it made Mirk’s heart leap up into his throat.“What...what was that?”

K’aekniv shrugged with both shoulders and wings. “The Destroyer. He comes, sometimes. And I beat him until he goes away. If I see him before he kills too much.”

Mirk looked around K’aekniv’s bulk at Genesis’s lifeless body on the floor. “I don’t understand.”

“Ah, come. We’ll take the bastard to a bed, and then we will talk, yes? The other healers, they can help the little angel.” 

Too bewildered to protest, Mirk nodded. 

“You, you bitch, you owe me a drink,” K’aekniv grumbled as he turned back to Genesis’s body. He picked him up and draped him over one shoulder, unceremoniously, then trudged to the door. The wood around the its frame was blackened like it had been burned.

“What? Are you not coming?” 

Mirk shuffled after him. There didn’t seem to be much other option.

“Let me just make sure Comrade Emir knows what’s wrong. Then I’ll...I’ll come fix him.”

Duty made no exceptions. Not even when it meant healing the man who’d just been trying to kill them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this all very confusing with the magic and the disembodied voices and such, but all will be explained! Soon! By Niv, which means maybe we'll understand what's going on, that is, as long as Niv understands what's going on. Which is always questionable...
> 
> K'aekniv, additionally, has no sense of personal space, in case you hadn't noticed. Also, the _snegurochka_ folk tale actually wasn't around till like the 19th century, but K'aekniv's had a run in with someone who gave him the idea for the name. You have to admit "snow maiden"' is an apt name for someone he's always referring to as a cold bitch.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
